THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


FOGY   FAYS,  AND  NOW; 

OR, 

THE   WORLD   HAS  CHANGED, 


THE  INNOVATIONS  OF  THE  i9TH  CENTURY. 


15 V  DAVE  U.  SLOAN,  ATLANTA,  GEORGIA. 


The  world  moves  on,  it  does  progress, 
Rests  not,  rushing  on,  on  it  goes, 

A\  here  or  whitherward,  it  may  be  bound, 
Is  veiled,  God  Himself  only  knows. 

The  rage  now  is,  to  let  her  roll, 
Roll  on,  rush  on,  regardless  where ; 

Let  her  roll,  we'll  cross  the  stream, 
Though  we  know  a  maelstrom's  near. 

To-day  every  man's  for  himself, 
Hindmost  left  to  the  devil's  care, 

The  tickling  game's  the  winning  card, 
Man  must  tickle  to  get  his  share. 

If  all  progress  was  but  for  good, 
Both  good  and  evil,  run  along, 

Side  by  side  do  their  waters  flow, 
But  evil  seems  the  bigger  prong. 

Sometimes  we  gaze  into  God's  expanse, 
Peer  out  into  a  thousand  years, 

Then  look  back  at  the  trifling  past, 
And  smile  at  former?joys  and  fears. 


FOOTE  &  DAVIES, 

PRINTERS  AND  BOOK  BINDERS, 

ATLANTA,  GA.,  1891. 


PREFACE. 


It  has  been  said  that  truly  great  men  do  not  like  to  talk 
about  themselves;  and  why  should  they,  when  their  names  and 
deeds  are  in  the  mouths  of  all  the  people  ? 

If  the  little  ones  of  the  world  don't  speak  out  for  themselves, 
how  can  they  be  heard  from  ? 

Therefore,  we  pray  the  indulgence  of  our  readers  and  trust 
they  will  make  due  allowance  for  the  egotistical  little  word 
"  I,"  so  frequently  used  in  this  bungling  production. 

In  the  very  outset,  we  confess  our  verdancy  in  the  art  of 
book-making,  and  in  taking  the  risk  are  fully  aware  of  our  lia 
bility  to  be  cropped  by  the  frisky  kine  from  the  herds  of  the 
literati — especially  the  gory  ones  from  the  clover  pastures  of 
authordom — and  if  any  such  should  stray  in  our  rural  pathway, 
and  perchance  nip  from  our  coarser  tufts,  the  greens  are  not 
unwholesome — won't  hurt  them  ;  they  are  welcome.  Our  wild 
grass  ranges,  or  commons,  are  not  intended  for  them,  but  for 
the  people — God  bless  them — the  best  of  all. 

We  are  unacquainted  with  the  science  of  music,  absolutely 
in  the  dark  as  to  its  very  rudiments,  yet  have  observed  when 
we  chassa  our  horse-hair  across  the  bridge  of  our  old  fiddle, 
that  our  hearers  are  inclined  to  pat  their  feet. 

Nor  do  we  make  any  pretense  to  erudition,  elegance  of  dic 
tion,  metrical  verse,  or  even  to  grammatical  sentences;  but  if 

567185 


1V  PREFACE. 

(^^J^wX?  . 

we  can  only  so  shake  our  literary  tambourine  as  to  strike  a 
responsive  chord  with  the  hearts  of  the  people,  then  our 
labors  shall  not  have  been  unrewarded. 

In  this  little  daub  of  a  book,  we  have  dabbled  both  in  verse 
and  prose,  and  though  the  structure  may  appear  rustic  and 
uncouth,  we  have  tried,  nevertheless,  to  drive  the  nails  square 
in  the  wood,  and  if  it  should  be  said  there  is  more  truth  than 
poetry  in  the  -Jiake-up,  we  shall  not  appeal  from  the  verdict. 

Any  way,  let  the  effort  be  considered  good,  bad  or  indiffer 
ent,  we  are  alone  responsible;  have  copied  after  nobody.  It's 
all  home-made  truck,  and  if  critics  can  discover  nothing  but 
our  ears,  we  want  it  distinctly  understood  that  we  have  not 
assumed  the  disguise  of  the  lion's  skin. 

Our  book  is  indited  to  the  people,  and  we  have  tried  in  our 
simple  way  to  illustrate  some  of  the  scenes  and  customs  of 
the  days  of  fogyism,  trusting  to  the  youth  of  the  present  day, 
it  may  afford  amusing  portraitures  of  the  days  of  "yore,"  and 
to  our  old-time  folks  suggest  pleasing  reminiscences  of  the 
"Days  of  Auld-Lang-Syne." 


DEDICATED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER, 


A  noble,  wee-bit  of  a  woman,  with  an  enormous  heart,  made 
up  largely  of  love,  lamb  and  lion ;  afraid  of  nothing  above, 
beneath  or  on  the  darth,  but  God  Himself,  and  a  cyclone ;  a 
devoted  Christian  mother,  wife  and  friend,  with  refined  and 
literary  tastes ;  the  very  soul  of  rectitude,  and  fearless  cham 
pion  of  right  under  every  circumstance ;  the  faithful  mother 
of  a  round  dozen  of  children,  and  died  scratching  for  her 
brood. 


". 


ENTERED  IN  THE  OFFICE  OF  THE  LIBRARIAN  OF  CONGRESS,  AT  WASHINGTON, 
D.  C.,  IN  THE  YEAR  1891,  BY  DAVE  IT.  SLOAN. 


-.  i 


INTRODUCTION. 


Have  often  tho't  I'd  write  a  book, 
Tho'  had  grave  doubts  how  it  would  look. 
To  write  a  book  should  have  knowledge, 
To  look  nice  should  come  from  college . 

But  I've  not  been  through  such  machine. 
Their  inside  walls  have  never  seen, 
Therefore  am  short  in  education, 
So  much  needed  in  this  vocation. 

I'd  clutch  the  idea,  then  abolish, 
Because  I  could  not  give  it  polish. 
Still  it  haunts  from  time  to  time, 
I'll  let  it  slide  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

I'll  start  in  verse — see  how  it  goes — 
I'll  mix  it  up,  both  rhyme  and  prose, 
The  garbage  may  not  please  the  eye 
Of  cultured  critics,  nor  shall  I  try. 

Out  on  the  world  the  book  I'll  cast, 
Waft  out  the  songs  of  old  times  past; 
Songs  of  the  good  old  times  I  have  ween, 
What  I  have  heard  and  where  I  have  been. 

Old-time  happenings  set  afloat, 
Made  up  ot  story  and  annecdote. 
Contrast  to-day  with  foggy  times, 
Show  'em  up  in  bungling  rhymes. 

From  the  days  of  yore,  I  take  my  text, 
Our  fathers'  days  with  ours  affixed, 
Warp  of  Auld-Lang-Syne,  woof  of  yore, 
From  which  will  weave  a  cloth  of  lore. 

Now,  in  this  day  of  innovation, 
In  this  grand,  progressive  nation  ; 
Now,  when  these  young  canny  laddies, 
Gathering  wisdom,  beat  their  daddies. 


INTRODUCTION. 

E'en  they,  if  they  scan  these  pages, 
Might  glean  news  of  other  ages. 
Lets  now  step  back  some  fifty  years  ; 
Excuse  me,  please,  must  dry  my  tears. 

First  saw  light  'midst  vines  and  bowers, 
Balmy  Florida,  land  of  flowers ; 
Born  the  time  the  jessamines  bloom, 
Born  in  sound  of  the  gulf  waves  boom. 

Birthplace,  too,  of  the  dread  cyclone, 
Whose  life  is  not  unlike  my  own, 
Nativities  both  in  south's  extreme; 
A  brief  cavort  and  a  sorrow's  dream. 

Transplanted  thence  to  Palmetto  State, 
Where  my  parents  did  re-emigrate. 
There  got  my  imperfect  schooling, 
My  only  plea  against  critics  ruling. 

Grew  up  there,  and  grew  a  Democrat, 
Died  in  the  wool,  tanned  in  the  vat ; 
Reared  in  sight  of  the  great  Calhoun 
In  his  zenith,  his  high,  mid-noon. 

A  statesman  true,  with  eagle  eye, 
A  man  that  boodle  could  not  buy. 
Like  all  the  State  to  him  I'd  freeze ; 
If  he  took  snuff  we  all  would  sneeze. 

And  glorious  sneezes  we  then  snoze, 
Every  sneeze,  tighter  to  him  froze, 
In  the  good  old  days  of  long  ago ; 
Blessed  days,  but  now  do  seem  slow. 

Thought  leads  back  to  old  Pendleton, 
'Twas  there  my  reckoning  first  began ; 
First  hopes  all  hail  the  sunny  gleams,  ' 
Steals  o'er  my  soul  like  happy  dreams. 

Sweet  to  revel  in  memory's  strain ; 
'Tis  sweet  solace  to  a  tired  brain, 
But,  oh  !  do  sad,  all  gone  forever! 
Return  no  more  forever,  ever. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Introduction 7-8 

On  Seneca's  Banks 9 

Fairfield  Valley,  N.  C..,r..'.". 12 

The  Deer  Drive 14 

Land  of  the  Sky 17 

Lasi  Hunt  with  Hampton 19 

Cashiers  Valley,  N.  C....«rrrTTT!7 22 

South  Carolina  Home 33 

The  Halcyon  Days 36 

The  Old  Slave  Regime 38 

The  Corn-Shucking 42 

The  Sunny  South 45 

Fifty  Years  Ago...r..'.'. 47 

Old  Pendleton,  S.  C.^.. 55 

John  Caldwell  CalhounV. 62 

This  Day  of  Progression 81 

An  Age  of  Monopoly  and  Greed 84 

The  Two  Streams 88 

Earth's  Three  Epochs 91 

The  Pewter  Buckle  Moulds 93 

My  First  Horse  Trade 08 

Mountain  Sprouts  and  Sand  Lappert 10:> 

Here's  Another 108 

Disappointed  Love 110 

Shirt-Tail  Canyon,  California 117 

Chased  by  Wolves  in  California 120 

Rabun  County,  Ga.,  Frolic 124 

The  Victim 131 

Falling  Off  a  Mountain  138 


, 

v,  CONTENTS. 


The  Anxious  Enquirer  .....................................................  141 

How  I  Got  Rid  of  Prince  Albert  ..........................................  145 

The  Prophetic  Speech  ...........  ....................  ........................  148 

The  Unexpected  Preach  ....................  .........  .......................  159 

A  Historic  Horn  ..................................................................  163 

Dried  Apple  Cider  ...............................................................  167 

An  Olden  Time  Fox  Chase  ...................................................  172 

The  Cracker  Girl  ................................................................  181 

Prohibition  Victory  in  Atlanta,  Ga  .......................................  191 

Our  Old  Chieftain  .............................................................  193 

The  Little  Purp  .................................................................  195 

The  Messenger  of  Peace  ......  ..............................................  196 

Who  is  Poor  .................................  .........  .............................  197 

Hotel  Poetry  .....................................  .  ........  .......................  199 

Sewing  Machine  Poetry  ....................................................  201 

The  Census  Taker  ...............................................................  202 

Judge  Bleckley's  Phantom  Lady  ......................  .................  209 

The  Poor  Boy  .....................................................................  213 

The  Old  North  State  .......................  .  ...................................  217 

The  Juniug  Letters  ..............................................................  225 

The  Old  Stone  Church  .....................................................  231 

The  Confederate  Soldiers'  Home  ..........................................  235 

Conclusion...  238 


THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW; 

THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED. 


ON  SENECA'S  BANKS. 


N  Seneca's  banks  so  often  fished, 
Her  woods  and  fields  all  I  wished ; 
There  drove  the  deer,  knew  every  stand, 
And  chased  the  fox  through  brake  and  strand. 

Have  hunted  every  dell  and  hill, 
There  slaked  my  thirst  from  every  rill ; 
From  tree  top  did  the  squirrel  bring, 
Shot  down  the  partridge  on  the  wing. 

Have  treed  the  'possum  and  the  coon, 
"  Larnt"  the  signs  from  stars  and  moon; 
Before  the  lark,  didn't  count  it  trouble 
To  hunt  the  roost  where  turkeys  gobble. 

Picked  the  strings  and  drawed  the  bow, 
To  lively  tunes  fiddle  and  banjo ; 
My  old  tutor  darkey,  Fiddler  Jack, 
How  these  memories  carry  me  back. 

Back,  back  to  good  old  days  of  yore, 
Back  to  the  olden  days  galore ; 
To  that  home  in  the  Piedmont  land, 
Where  mountain  zephyrs  softly  fanned. 


10  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

Back  to  olden  days  of  pleasure, 
The  days  of  luck,  ease  and  leisure  ; 
T>ays  of  youth,  when  the  heart  was  glad, 
Before  sorrows  came  to  make  sad. 

Free  as  air  to  go,  as  free  to  come, 
Bring  our  friends  to  a  father's  home ; 
Then  so  happy  to  entertain, 
And  ne'er  to  see  the  like  again. 

The  rich  cut-glass  and  old  sideboard, 
A  custom  then  could  well  afford ; 
Such  hospitalities  then  would  share, 
Its  absence  from  a  home  was  rare. 

Ever  with  rich  juices  filled, 
Ever  stood  with  the  best  distilled ; 
Full  welcome,  never  lock  or  key, 
A  jovial  dram  for  you  and  me. 

And  the  sugar  loaf  too  was  there, 
Aromatic  nutmeg  for  toddy  rare ; 
Or  fresh  from  garden,  the  fragrant  mint, 
Free  to  all,  nor  thought  of  stint. 

To  drink  a  friendly  toast  was  nice, 
Before  prohibition  gave  advice  ; 
Drank  good  cheer  to  friendship  true, 
A  drunkard  then  scarce  ever  knew. 

Long  table  spread,  many  a  seat, 
Where  the  welcome  guests  all  could  eat, 
And  merrily,  merrily  passed  the  day, 
With  friend  and  friend  the  old  time  way. 

The  great  Blue  Ridge  full  in  sight, 
So  azure  blue,  else  clothed  in  white, 
Could  view  afar  their  craggy  heights, 
And  oft'  have  clambered  o'er  their  flights. 


OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  11 

How  much  in  bliss  there  realized, 
When  all  for  sport  have  sacrificed  ; 
In  summer  time  there  was  ncy  home, 
Tramped  from  valley  up  to  dome. 

With  dogs  and  gun,  my  chief  delight, 
I  worshipped  them  and  thought  it  right; 
Downed  the  buck  in  its  wildest  route, 
Flirted  from  the  shoal  the  speckled  trout. 

There  first  read  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,  " 
Where  poet's  pen  did  heroes  make ; 
On  rock  couch  had  my  reveries  woke, 
By  the  wierd  sound  of  ravens'  croak. 

Listened  to  music  from  following  hound, 
Traced  echoes  from  the  horn  we  wound ; 
And  it  did  seem  heaven  there  and  then, 
If  another  on  earth,  Oh  where,  and  when. 

Mysterious  world,  thus  to  sever, 
I  but  dream  of  what's  gone  forever ; 
To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday, 
For  time  at  his  old  tricks  doth  play. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 


FAIRFIELD  VALLEY,  NORTH    CAROLINA. 


VALE  of  Avoca,  have  never  seen, 
But  Fail-field  would  beat  it,  I  ween ; 
On  a  knoll,  in  that  lovely  vale, 
Sat  our  cottage,  gem  of  the  dale. 

By  a  brooklet  so  chrystal  clear, 
Sky-scraping  mountains  in  the  rear ; 
East  there  flowed  the  cleanest  river, 
As  limpid  as  the  Gaudalquiver. 

This  river's  name  was  Toxi-way, 
Doubtless  is  running  there  to-day ; 
And  there  sported  the  spangled  trout, 
'Twas  my  delight  to  lift  them  out. 

Across  the  river,  mountain  chain, 
Making  off"  from  the  Blue  Ridge  main, 
To  the  left,  and  also  parallel, 
Walls  of  blue  rock,  remember  well. 

A3  rounding  high,  a  thousand  feet, 
Which  do,  too,  the  Blue  Ridge  meet ; 
And  Fairfield  Valley  lies  between, 
Nor  fairer  vale  was  ever  seen. 

In  contour  oval  to  the  eye, 
And  level  doth  its  bottoms  lie ; 
The  river  heads  north,  full  in  sight, 
From  a  thousand  rills  with  waters  bright, 


OK,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CIIAXiJKD. 

•Comes  dashing  down  into  our  vale, 
Making  a  river  of  silvery  trail ; 
It's  egress  south,  does  seem  shut  in 
As  if  no  outlet,  none  had  been. 

Ridges  seemed  joined  in  solid  wall, 
But  through  a  gorge  the  waters  fall ; 
<3ro  plunging  down  this  narrow  way, 
Mad'ning  in  their  boisterous  play ; 

Reckless  leaps  to  the  dell  below, 
Plunging,  foaming,  and  white  as  snow. 
Just  down  there,  once,  we  had  a  mill, 
Wonder  if  it  grinds,  sawing  still  ? 

High,  o'er  cottage,  a  mountain  top, 
As  if  upon  perchance  might  drop  ; 
To  the  north,  standing  stark  and  stiff, 
The  mountain  backbone,  grand  Sheep  Cliff. 

And  mountains  circling  all  around, 
•So  was  this  lovely  valley  bound ; 
Much  like  some  great  amphitheater, 
Built  by  God,  the  grand  Creator. 

A  scene  so  grand,  indeed  so  great, 
Artist  hand  dare  not  imitate ; 
And  is  so  fraught  with  Nature's  gush, 
The  tints  must  come  from  Heaven's  brush. 

The  sun  climbs  o'er  the  hills  at  ten, 
Shines  o'er  this  deep  basin — and  then 
Hides  its  head  at  four,  sinking  down, 
Shuts  out  the  curtailed  horizon. 

Another  valley,  across  a  gap, 
Cashier's,  and  lying  like  a  lap ; 
The  lap  of  this  great  mountain  chain, 
And  lies  there  yet,  if  been  no  change. 


14  THE   FOGY    DAYS   AND    NOW; 

These  valleys  lie  there  side  by  side, 
Their  beauty  no  one  hath  denied  ; 
And  here  our  Southern  people  came, 
Some  for  health,  some  in  search  of  game. 

They  came  in  search  of  game  and  health, 
All  of  means  and  many  of  wealth ; 
Here  they  came  to  spend  their  summers, 
Were  attracted  there,  many  comers. 

These  valleys  in  the  old  North  State, 
There  yet,  if  not  removed  of  late ; 
Very  near  its  Southern  border, 
Sure  we  left  them  in  that  order. 

From  the  State  of  Buncombe  were  due  West, 
These  valleys  of  so  much  interest ; 
Left  them  there  hanging  near  the  sky, 
Among  the  clouds  ahanging  high. 

And  here  we  gathered  every  Spring, 
Our  guns  and  dogs  along  would  bring ; 
Came  to  enjoy  each  one  full  share, 
So  back  behind  we  left  all  care. 


THE    DEER   DRIVE. 

Would  break  our  fast  at  early  morn, 
Called  together  by  signal  horn ; 
When  eager  hounds  with  business  yelp, 
Seemed  crying,  "  Masters,  here's  your  help. 

Horn  answers  horn  to  sound  the  meet, 
We'd  start  the  hunt  before  the  heat ; 
Then  off  to  the  wilds  we'd  repair, 
To  roust  the  game  from  out  his  lair. 


OB,    THE    WOKLD    HAS    CHANGED.  L5 

First  plan  the  drive,  start  in  the  hounds, 
Then  post  the  standers  on  their  grounds ; 
All  ready,  each  one  for  his  part, 
The  drivers  in  to  make  the  start. 

Anon,  we  hear  the  shrill  halloo, 
Down  in  the  cove,  way  down  below ; 
Watching,  listening,  catch  a  sound, 
'Twas  but  loose  tongue,  a  puppy  hound. 

But,  there  again,  old  Troop  strikes  trail, 
Troop  is  true,  never  known  to  fail ; 
There's  Haidee,  too,  and  she's  a  blood, 
They  now  give  tongue  all  through  the  wood. 

Aye,  aye,  and  now  have  sprung  the  game, 
The  pack  all  in,  and  are  aflame ; 
They  follow  close,  the  scent  is  strong, 
Now  the  grand  chorus  swells  along. 

Lookout  standers,  now  watch  your  ground, 
Ha!     Here  they  come,  the  crying  hounds; 
What  bodes  the  weakness  in  my  back? 
The  tremor  doth  my  legs  attack. 

Have  heard,  if  symptoms  don't  deceive, 
Case  of  buck-ague,  we  do  believe ; 
LaGrippe  has  got  us  in  the  back, 
Has  got  us,  got  us,  fur  a  fack. 

But  they  have  tacked,  turned  another  way, 
And  our  chance  is  lost,  lost  for  to-day  ; 
The  game  is  wary,  plays  around, 
Can  trace  him  by  the  following  hound. 

Other  stander  may  be  in  luck, 
May  be  his  day  to  kill  the  buck  ; 
Nervously  we  watch,  watch  and  wait, 
Hi !     They  come  again,  coming  straight. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AXD    NOW; 

A  crash,  a  thug,  our  ears  assail, 
See  there  branching  horns,  cotton  tail ; 
Quick  bounding  past,  as  like  a  streak, 
And  right  now's  our  time  to  speak. 

Bang,  bang,  our  double-barrel  went, 
And  two  buck  loads  at  him  we  sent, 
Aha !     We  see  he  drops,  drops  his  tail, 
His  agile  spring  begins  to  fail. 

The  pack  sweep  by,  as  like  a  storm, 
They  scent  the  blood  and  make  it  warm  ; 
And,  like  the  wind,  they  follow  fast, 
And  like  a  cyclone  now  have  past. 

'Tis  all  over,  the  dogs  at  bay, 
Glory  enough  for  one  short  day ; 
The  chase  is  ended,  the  stag  is  dead, 
The  hounds  around  are  gather-ed. 

Now  in  triumph,  filled  with  pride, 
The  dogs  at  rest,  are  satisfied  ; 
Now  we  sound  the  gathering  call, 
Answer  winds  back  from  one  and  all. 

Have  heard  the  signal  and  obeyed, 
And  up  rides  the  jolly  cavalcade; 
So  went  the  hunt  from  day  to  day, 
If  not  the  same,  then  another  way. 

Sometimes  rewarded  with  a  bruin, 
Or  sleek  panther,  a  beast  of  ruin, 
Wolf  or  catamount,  all  the  same, 
For  we  were  out,  our  purpose  game. 

Turkey  and  pheasant  we  often  shot, 
To  grace  the  table,  fill  the  pot ; 
So  all  our  summer  days  were  spent, 
For,  like  business,  at  it  we  went. 


OH,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  17 

LAND    OF    THE    SKY. 

That  beautful  land  of  the  sky, 
Grand  mountains  rivalling  Italy; 
From  their  high  tops  the  grandest  view, 
For  vast  expanse  we  ever  knew. 

From  great  Sheep  Cliff,  the  main  Blue  Ridge, 
Long,  narrow,  like  a  mountain  bridge; 
On  that  high  perch  we've  often  stood, 
And  gazed  afar  'pon  field  and  wood. 

O'er  tops  of  hundred  circling  peaks, 
And  endless  coves  and  cliffs  in  streaks, 
Boundless  forests,  with  much  Spruce  pine, 
And  all  the  brooks,  the  Laurel  line. 

Here  and  there  we  see  bright  cascades, 
Snowy  waters  leaping  to  the  glades : 
Northward  the  Smoky  Mountains  blue, 
And  noted  for  this  special  hue. 

Here  the  balmy  Balsams  intervene, 
Wrapt  in  their  softer  velvet  green, 
Though  together  so  closely  linked, 
Their  shades  of  culor  quite  distinct. 

Now  mark  those  ridges  taper  down, 
Towards  the  plain,  the  level  ground  ; 
There  we  have  the  ocean  view, 
Those  white  spots  like  white  caps  too. 

See  the  field  and  wood  sink  and  swell, 
Doth  imitate  old  ocean  well ; 
Watch  the  glories  of  setting  sun, 
Painting  resplendant  the  horizon. 


18  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AXD  NOW  ; 

Painting,  guilding  with  such  bright  sheen, 
Language  fails,  can't  describe  the  scene ; 
Now  feel  the  need  of  education, 
Subside,  no  further  explanation. 

In  Heaven  we  ken,  mountains  fair, 
Grand  ranges,  ever  standing  there, 
For  they  display  God's  mighty  hand, 
Majestic  mountains  bear  His  brand. 

Silvery  streams  and  cbrystal  bright, 
Rivers  in  which  the  saints  delight ; 
Who,  forever  sing  out  their  thanks. 
Tramping  gems  that  line  their  banks. 

Plucking  fruits  that  forever  ripe, 
And  ne'er  and  ne'er  a  tear  to  wipe ; 
Xo  anxious  thought  about  to-morrow, 
Where  the  Son  of  God  shuts  out  sorrow. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  19 


LAST  HUNT  WITH   HAMPTON 


B 


UT  Summer's  past  and  Fall  has  come, 

Now  turn  our  thoughts  to  going  home. 
Here's  a  yarn,  some  may  call  it  luck, 
Col.  Hampton  wished  a  deer — a  buck. 


A  whole  buck  to  his  home  to  take, 
So  we  did  the  arrangement  make  ; 
Take  to  Columbia  on  his  return, 
He'll  testify  to  the  whole  concern. 

Now  knowing  where  a  fine  deer  lay, 
On  Nix  Mountain,  there  let  him  stay, 
'Till  by  appointment,  when  enroute, 
Had  laid  our  plans  to  get  him  out. 

Ready,  sent  our  negro  driver, 
If  this  buck  he  could  diski-ver, 
And  we  rode  round  to  hold  the  gaps 
Where  the  game  would  pass,  no  mishaps. 

Nor  did  we  have  to  daily  long, 
Until  we  heard  the  dogs  give  tongue, 
In  a  jiffy  the  game  was  sprung, 
And  at  his  heels  the  dogs  were  strung. 

The  deer  made  direct  to  our  stand, 
Double-barrel  cocked  in  our  hand ; 
Our  eye  fixed  on  the  coming  game, 
And  we  were  nerved  for  deadly  aim. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  J 

Crash  above  called  our  attention, 
T\vas  the  Colonel  making  our  direction, 
Galloping  down  the  mountain  side, 
As  rapid  as  a  man  could  well  ride, 

Came  quartering  toward  the  deer, 
As  to  intercept  it  did  appear ; 
The  buck  was  stretched  at  full  speed, 
So  it  seemed  was  the  Colonel's  steed. 

Then  we  saw  a  blaze  from  his  gun, 
And  as  quick  as  thought  another  one ; 
The  buck  came  on  like  thunderbolt, 
As  if  shot  out  from  catapault. 

And  fell  dead  within  twenty  rods, 

That  shot  was  worthy  of  the  gods ; 

AVagon  was  waiting  at  the  road, 

That  buck  made  part  of  the  Colonel's  load. 

The  last  hunt  with  him  we  ever  took, 
Just  as  we  tell  it  in  this  book. 
Col.  Hampton  then  was  young  and  rich, 
A  full  made  man  in  every  stitch. 

A  man  who  no  one  bore  ill  will, 
A  hunter  bold  and  one  of  skill ; 
A  soldier  born,  though  then  untried, 
Now  known  to  fame,  far  and  wide. 

Of  the  best  timber  was  he  made, 
And  braver  ne'er  donned  the  plaid  ; 
Nature's  nobleman,  luck  or  adversity, 
The  hero  be  known  to  posterity. 


HAMPTON,  Miss.,  April  16th,  1891. 

MY  DEAR  SIR — I  have  been  traveling  about  so  much  of  late  that 
my  correspondence  has  fallen  in  arrears,  and  thus  your  kind  letter 
directed  to  Washington  remained  unanswered. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  21 

I  remember  well  the  incident  you  refer  to,  as  I  do  many  pleas 
ant  hours  spent  with  you  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina. 

There  have  been  many  changes  since  those  days,  and  many  oi 
them  for  the  worst,  but  I  hope  that  our  South  may  yet  be  prosper. 
ous.  With  my  kind  regards  I  am, 

Very  truly  yours, 

WADE  HAMPTON. 

P.  S. — Two  or  three  years  ago  I  shot  a  buck  here  which  weighed 
with  entrals  out  265  pounds;  his  skin,  from  neck  to  end  of  tail, 
is  seven  feet  long.  I  have  here,  too,  a  pair  of  horns  with  twenty- 
eight  points.  H. 

To  D.  U.  Sloan,  Atlanta,  Ga. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 


CASHIER'S  VALLEY,  N.  C. 


T^HIS  valley  was  named  for  a  horse,  that  strayed  from  its 
owner,  James  McKinney,  of  South  Carolina,  and  after 
months  was  discovered  grazing  in  security  there.  McKinney 
was  so  well  pleased  with  the  locality  that  he  afterwards  set 
tled  there,  and  spent  the  balance  of  his  life  in  Cashier's  Valley. 
Situated  upon  the  very  apex  01  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains, 
in  North  Carolina,  this  valley  is  one  of  the  most  elevated  in 
the  State,  having  an  altitude  of  near  4,000  feet  above 
tide-water,  bounded  on  the  north  by  Sheep  Cliff,  the  backbone 
of  the  Blue  Ridge,  east  by  the  Rock  Mountain  and  Chimney 
Top,  south  by  the  Terrapin,  and  west  by  the  great  White- 
sides.  Passing  through  McKinney's  Gap,  to  the  north,  cross 
ing  the  ridge,  one  would  descend  into  the  fertile  Tuskaseege 
Valley,  and  crossing  a  gap  to  the  east,  would  drop  suddenly 
into  Fairfield,  300  feet  lower  than  Cashier's,  and  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  valleys  in  all  this  range;  going  west,  would 
enter  the  valley  of  Horse  Cove,  nestling  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Whitesides;  following  the  waters  south,  would  be  brought 
to  a  sudden  halt  by  the  White-water  Falls,  equal  in  volume  of 
water,  and  vieing  in  its  magnificence  of  scenery  with  the 
famous  Tallulah  Falls  of  Georgia.  After  several  stupendous 
leaps,  this  beautiful  clear  water  stream  plunges  into  the  Valley 
of  Jocasse,  S.  C.,  where,  uniting  with  other  streams,  it  forms 
the  Keowee  River. 


OR,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  23 

Passing  through  Cashier's  Valley  is  a  turnpike  road,  built 
before  the  war,  by  Colonel  Wm.  Sloan,  to  the  North  Carolina 
line,  and  from  thence  by  Colonel  Wm.  Thomas,  across  the 
Blue  Ridge,  and  on  down  the  Tuckaseege.  Cashier's  is  com 
paratively  level,  and  the  tourist  could  imagine  he  was  in  a 
champaign  country,  but  for  those  huge  domes  that  stand  like 
grim  sentinels  encircling  the  valley,  and  upon  every  hand  an 
eye  of  taste  could  select  the  most  charming  spots  for  resi 
dences.  Years  ago,  when  hunting  game,  and  fishing  for  the 
speckled  trout  from  their  silvery  beds,  we  would  conjure  up  in 
our  minds  vision  pictures  of  enchanting  grounds  and  imposing 
edifices,  consequent  upon  the  advent  of  railroads;  and 
now,  since  the  development  of  the  Richmond  and  Danville  Rail 
road — the  great  Piedmont  line — our  youthful  fancies  have  in 
part  been  realized,  for  a  few  miles  away  the  thriving  town  of 
Highlands  has  sprung  into  existence,  on  one  of  the  most  ele 
vated  plateaus  of  the  Blue  Ridge — is  a  charming  place,  and  is 
becoming  a  place  of  resort  in  the  summer  months. 

The  visitor,  in  ascending  this  mountain  region,  notices  the 
wonderful  change  in  the  atmosphere,  its  bracing  effect  on  the 
system,  the  feeling  of  freshness  and  delight  experienced  in 
this  altitude.  The  effect  on  the  appetite  is  remarkable ;  first 
keen,  then  ravenous.  We  can  never  forget  our  first  visit  to 
Cashier's  Valley,  our  relish  for  old  Aunt  Sally  McKinney's 
"  yaller-legged  "  chickens,  fried  so  brown,  and  floating  in  the 
golden  melted  butter,  snow-white  smothered  cabbage,  mealy 
Irish  potatoes,  cracking  wide  open  as  they  were  lifted  from  the 
kettle,  buckwheat  cakes  and  mountain  honey,  nor  shall  we  try 
to  erase  from  our  memory  old  Mr.  Mac's  mountain  dew  that 
sat  out  on  the  water-shelf  before  and  after  and  between  meals. 

To  describe  this  romantic  region  would  require  the  pen  of 


24  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

genius,  and  books,  and  after  all  would  have  to  be  seen  in  per- 
lon  to  be  appreciated.  This  section  abounds  in  game  and 
affords  many  delights  to  the  sportsman.  Cashier's  and  Fair- 
field  Valleys  were  for  many  years  the  resort  of  some  of  the 
best  citizens  of  South  Carolina.  It  was  here  the  noble  Hamp 
ton  loved  to  come  out  of  the  Summer's  heat  to  chase  the  deer 
and  catch  the  mountain  trout  ;  and,  long  before  the  war,  the 
Hamptons,  Prestons,  Calhouns,  Haskells,  Chevisee,  McCords, 
Taylors,  Palmers,  Stevens,  Whitners  and  Sloans  spent  their 
summers  there. 

"  Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  clothes  the  mountains  in  their  azure  hue." 

The  poets  picture  here  is  but  partly  true, 
True,  its  distance  makes  the  color  blue, 
Why  not  as  pretty,  if  the  color's  green, 
As  arrayed  in  its  lovely  Summer  sheen, 

On  near  approach,  the  color  changes  hue, 
Refreshing  green  takes  the  place  of  blue  ; 
But  the  distance  part  we  would  refute, 
In  our  survey,  would  rather  be  more  minute  ; 
To  us  the  enchantment  is  in  being  there, 
At  least  we'd  choose  it  for  our  share. 


these  mountains  from  the  Piedmont  Road,  from 
the  many  glimpses  to  be  had  as  it  skirts  along  its  base  for  one 
hundred  miles,  is  a  sight  that  must  ever  attract  attention,  but 
for  real  enjoyment  the  admirer  should  go  in  their  midst, 
ramble  the  valleys  and  climb  the  heights,  trace  the  dashing 
streams,  behold  with  his  own  eyes  the  cloud-capped  peaks, 
view  the  broad  expanse  of  counti-y  to  the  south,  stretching 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  'till  earth  and  sky  seem  to  kiss 


OH,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CllANciKJ).  25 

each  other;  see  hill  and  dale,  like  ocean's  undulating  waves, 
landscape  dotted  with  farm  and  villa,  resembling  much  the 
white  caps  of  the  sea,  and  all  around  see  monster  peaks,  peep 
ing  over  the  heads  of  the  others,  as  if  to  catch  a  better  view 
of  the  great  world  below,  but,  ever  quiet  and  courteous,  they 
do  not,  human-like,  trample  upon  each  others  toes  and  cry  out 
"down  in  front"  to  those  who  happen  to  impede  their  view. 

These  mountains  possess  a  labrynth  of  magnificent  scenery, 
and  the  lover  of  the  romantic  and  picturesque  can  here  revel 
in  such  delights.  If  one  would  witness  Nature's  grandeur  in 
an  adjective  degree,  let  him  'stand  on  one  of  those  towering 
pinnacles  and  watch  the  storm  king  as  he  sways  the  earth 
below,  standing  serene  beneath  the  brightest  rays  of  the  sun, 
he  may  see  the  white  clouds  roll  far  beneath  his  feet,  listen  to 
the  rushing  winds,  without  a  ruffle  of  his  hair,  hear  the  thun 
ders  reverberating  boom,  see  the  flashing  lightnings  as  they 
cleave  their  zigzag  course,  and  whilst  torrents  deluge  the  earth 
below,  he  stands  dry  shod,  or  let  him  peer  into  the  abyss 
below,  from  the  brink  of  some  precipice  down  into  the  giddy 
depths,  where  houses  look  like  toys  and  men  and  beasts  as  flies 
that  creep  on  the  wall. 

If  the  visitor  be  an  artist,  there  is  a  world  of  material  for 
his  crayon  ;  if  a  poet,  in  the  midst  of  these  mountains  is  the 
home  of  the  Muses ;  if  an  orator,  here  let  him  choose  his 
rostrum  and  spout,  for  inspiration  must  seize  him  here ;  if  a 
statesman,  here  let  him  climb  some  mountain  dome,  adjust 
his  glasses,  and  he  will,  perhaps,  see  further  than  he 
could  from  the  halls  of  "our  fathers;"  if  a  lawyer,  let  him 
come  here  and  rest  from  strife  and  enjoy  that  peace  he  would 
not  allow  his  neighbors ;  if  a  doctor,  he  may  come  here  and 


26  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

find  the  roots,  dig  and  pack  them  home,  for  no  physician  is 
needed  here ;  if  an  invalid,  let  him  hie  to  the  Highlands,  for 
every  spring  here  is  a  Ponce  DeLeon  and  filled  with  life  ;  if  a 
lover,  let  him  bring  hither  his  charmer,  seek  some  sequested 
dell,  and  whilst  reclining  on  some  mossy  couch,  with  finger 
tips  rippling  in  the  gurgling  rill,  and  though  the  heart  speaks 
most  when  the  lips  move  not,  the  tale  would  soon  be  told ;  if 
a  Nimrod,  here  is  the  hunter's  dreamland,  the  paradisical 
hunting  grounds;  if  he  has  a  soul  for  delightful  chords,  here 
he  may  bend  his  ear  and  catch  the  cadences  as  they  fall  from 
the  musical  echoes  of  the  many-tongued  pack,  as  it  swells  in 
song,  publishing  where  the  fleeting  stag  has  sped;  if  he  be  an 
emigrant,  here  he  can  come  and  buy  a  home,  rich  and  cheap, 
here  is  the  place  to  feather  a  nest,  sing  "  Home,  sweet  home,"  and 
compose  new  lullabys  for  generations  yet  unborn,  who  shall 
surely  flourish  under  these  Italian  skies. 

In  this  delightful  region  your  scribbler  was  delighted  to 
spend  many  of  the  summer  days  of  his  early  manhood ;  here 
first  read  the  beautiful  poems  of  Walter  Scott;  here  first 
brought  down  the  antlered  buck,  and  flirted  from  their  crystal 
beds  the  golden  spangled  trout ;  here  quaffed  from  the  glassy 
brooks  delicious  draughts  that  ice  would  spoil,  and  breathed 
an  atmosphere  so  pure  and  bracing  that  physical  exercise 
seemed  attended  with  no  fatigue,  and  often  since,  when  burn 
ing  with  miasmatic  fevers  in  Southern  Georgia,  in  fitful 
dreams  have  wandered  here  again,  almost  tasting  the  precious 
boon,  when  some  tantalizing  fate  would  snatch  it  away. 

The  inhabitants  of  these  mountains  are  rude  and  illiterate, 
but  warm-hearted  and  generous  to  their  friends;  they  have 
no  idea  of  caste,  and  are  profoundly  impressed  with  the  idea 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  27 

that  one  man  is  as  good  as  another,  if  not  a  little  the  best,  pro 
vided  he  is  honest.  They  entertain  supreme  contempt  for  the 
lower  country  and  city  folks,  who  were  too  ignorant  to  course 
a  bee  tree  or  follow  a  wolf  trail,  who  asked  silly  questions  and 
could  not  tell  a  deer  track  from  that  of  a  hog  or  a  sheep,  who 
knew  nothing  of  signs  and  shot-scatter  guns,  who  wore 
starched  shirts  and  combed  their  hair. 

Even  the  women  regarded  the  men  from  the  lower  country 
as  effeminate,  and  on  one  occasion  a  buxom  mountain  lassie 
bantered  a  South  Carolina  hunting  party  for  a  foot  race,  offer 
ing  to  take  the  biggest  man  they  had  on  her  back  and  beat 
their  best  runner.  On  another  occasion  this  same  heroine  was 
seen  coming  from  a  mountain  george,  with  her  rifle,  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  bloody  arms,  and,  upon  being  questioned,  indiffer 
ently  replied  that  she  had  "  jist  kilt  a  bar  beyant  the  Terrapin." 

Many  years  ago,  Mr.  John  C.  Calhoun,  Col.  Gadsden  and 
Col.  Wm.  Sloan,  were  surveying  for  a  railway  pass  through 
these  mountains,  and  whilst  the  subject  of  railroads  was  under 
discussion  in  the  presence  of  the  mountain  family,  a  young 
daughter,  the  pride  of  the  household,  put  in:  "  Uncle  Jim  says 
ef  be  war  to  see  one  of  them  relerodes  acomin',  he'd  leave  the 
world  and  take  a  saplin' ;  Dad  says,  ef  he  seed  the  dern 
thing  he'd  drap  rite  down  on  the  yeath."  But  now  these 
people  can  mount  any  of  their  neighboring  heights  and  watch 
the  wreathing  smoke  as  it  curls  up  from  the  iron  horse,  speed 
ing  along  the  Piedmont  hills.  Long  ago  a  marketing  party 
from  this  section,  with  their  wagons,  made  the  great  trip  to 
Augusta,  Ga.  They  belonged  to  the  Hardshell  persuasion  and 
everything  moved  nicely  'till  they  got  to  Augusta,  when  one 
of  the  brethren  got  too  much  of  the  o'erjoyful,  fixed  up  in  ice 


28  THE   FOGY   DAYS   AND   NOW; 

and  swcetnin',  lost  his  gauge,  and  was  picked  up  by  some  of 
the  party  in  a  gutter.  After  the  return  home  he  was  dealt  with 
by  the  church.  The  good  brother  made  an  honest  confession, 
and  humbly  besought  forgiveness  for  the  not  uncommon 
offence;  he  plead  in  palliation  for  the  slip,  that  the  ice  and 
sweetnin'  in  the  licker  had  fooled  him,  when  one  of  the 
breth-ren  exclaimed,  "Stop  right  thar  Brother  Wilson  ;  did 
you  say  they  put  ice  in  your  licker  ?  "  Turning  to  the  other 
breth-ren  asked,  "  Wernt  it  in  July  we  was  thar?"  Brother 
Wilson  said  he  knowed  it  wer  in  July,  but  they  surely  put  the 
ice  in  the  licker;  the  brethren  looked  grave,  and,  after  mature 
deliberation,  decided  to  expel  Brother  Wilson  from  the 
church,  not  for  getting  drunk,  but  for  telling  a  lie  and  sticking 
to  it,  for  all  the  brethren  knew  it  was  cooler  on  the  Blue 
Ridge  than  it  was  in  Augusta,  and  the  oldest  man  in  the 
settlement  had  never  seen  ice  in  July. 

On  another  occasion  a  mountain  preacher  was  explaining  to 
his  audience  that  morals  alone  could  not  take  a  man  to 
heaven  ;  as  he  proceeded  with  his  argument  he  became  more 
and  more  convinced  of  the  impossibility  of  the  thing ;  sud 
denly  p.'iusc'd  for  a  moment,  then  raising  high  his  brawny  arm 
brought  it  down  with  sledge-hammer  force  on  the  candle 
board,  exclaiming,  "No,  no,  my  breth-ren,  the  thing  can't  be 
did  ;  you  might  as  well  tell  me  that  a  hawk  could  knock  feath 
ers  out  of  a  terrapin. " 

Another,  a  minister,  was  illustrating  the  meekness  of  the 
lamb,  and  made  the  following  graphic  picture  :  "  Thar  was 
once  a  goat  and  a  sheep  acrossing  of  a  log  and  it  so  happened 
that  they  met  right  in  the  middle ;  the  water  was  swift  and 
the  log  was  high  ;  they  couldn't  pass  one  another,  the  loo-  was 


OK,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  29 

too  narrow,  they  couldn't  turn  around  for  fear  of  falling  off, 
nur  they  couldn't  go  through  one  another,  and  to  hit  that 
biliii'  water  down  below  were  surely  death  to  a  goat  or  a 
sheep.  Now  my  breth-ren,  right  thar  was  a  dilema  wan't  thar  ? 
Didn't  it  look  like  thar  was  a  dilema  thar?  Well,  thar  wernt. 
No,  my  brethren,  thar  wernt  narry  need  to  be  a  dilema  thar. 
I'll  tell  what  they  done,  why  the  sheep  squatted  down  and  the 
goat  jumped  over,  and  right  thar  was  the  meekness  of  the 
lamb  ;  and  oh,  my  dear  breth-ren  and  sisters,  thar's  a  way  out 
of  every  trouble  ;  its  to  squat,  why  squat,  jist  to  squat,  in  the 
name  of  my  lowly  Master  squat,  git  down,  git  down  ;  oh,  my 
dear  breth-ren,  be  ready  always  to  squat,  when  the  dilemas  of 
life  come — be  ready  to  squat. 

PREACHER     REID. 

Brother  Reid  was  an  uneducated  mountain  preacher,  could 
read  the  scriptures  with  difficulty,  but  he  thoroughly  under 
stood  the  plan  of  salvation,  and  could  illustrate  it  with  great 
force  to  his  people,  was  as  solid  and  orthodox  in  his  principles 
as  the  rocks  that  surrounded  him.  He  was  to  preach  in  Horse 
Cove,  where  Judge  Whitner,  from  Anderson,  S.  C.,  was 
spending  the  summer. 

He  was  informed  by  some  of  the  brethren  that  the  great 
Judge  Whitner  had  come  out  to  hear  him  preach,  that  he 
must  do  his  very  best  on  that  occasion. 

When  Brother  Reid  rose  to  line  out  his  hymn  it  could  be 
plainly  seen  that  something  was  weighing  heavily  upon  his 
mind.  He  started  to  read,  then  hesitated,  then  stopping  short 
and  looking  around  most  solemnly  at  the  people,  said  :  "  I 
have  been  told  by  some  of  the  breth-ren  to  do  my  best  to-day, 
for  the  great  Judge  Whitner  has  come  here  to  hear  me  preach. 


30  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

I  have  never  seen  the  Judge,  but  have  hearn  of  him,  and  I 
suppose  he  is  a  powerful  high  larnt  man,  and  if  he  has  come 
to  hear  me  preach  it  don't  make  no  difference  to  me.  Breth-ren 
when  I  preach  the  gospel  I  preach  Jesus  Christ  and  him  cru 
cified,  and  I  don't  care  if  Judge  Whitner  or  Judge  Thunder 
is  here,  and  if  Judge  Whitner  is  in  this  house  and  is  a  Chris 
tian  man  I  want  him  to  get  right  down  on  his  knees  and  pray 
with  us. "  The  Judge  complied  and  he  became  a  great  admirer 
of  Brother  Reid  and  his  lifetime  friend. 


COL.    WILLI AM  J  SLOAN. 


Oil.     THK     \VOKU>     HAS    CIIA  \(i  Kl>. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA   HOME. 


UT  Fall  is  here,  we  homeward  bound, 

Like  the  swallows  that  homeward  fly, 
Back  to  our  homes,  the  Piedmont  lands, 
Farewell,  Blue  Ridge,  'till  bye  and  bye. 

Long  Seneca's  gently  flowing  stream, 
Lies  a  valley  most  passing  fair, 

Valley  rich  with  alluvial  lands, 
That  have  long  been  tilled  with  care. 

In  the  good  old  South  Carolina, 

Where  Twelve-mile  Creek  and  Keowee, 
Mixing  waters  make  the  Sfeneca, 
Below  this  fork  dwelt  our  family. 

The  old  home  was  named  Tranquilla, 
Across  the  river  was  Fort  Hill, 

Famous  home  of  John  C.  Calhoun  ; 
Both  these  old  homes  are  standing  still. 

Across  the  Keowee,  fronting  too, 
Once  a  palatial  mansion  stood  ; 

John  E.  Calhoun  did  there  abide, 
And  rich  in  slaves,  field  and  wood. 

West,  and  below,  Uncle  Tommy  Sloan, 
Lewis,  Cherry,  Earle  and  Maxwell's, 

Generals  Pickens  and  Anderson, 
North,  above,  Lawrence  and  Liddells. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW, 

Still  above,  the  Ramseys  and  Reids, 
Broad  acres  each  and  all  possessed, 

Their  rich  bottoms  lined  the  river, 
With  abundance  all  were  blessed. 

To  say  they  lived  would  fail  to  tell, 
Larders  full,  graneries  bulging  o'er, 

Lived  as  nighbors  ought  to  live, 
Their  latch-strings  all  hung  out  the  door. 

Their  big  white  mansions  crowned  the  hills, 
Had  comforts  that  ne'er  can  be  told, 

Though  tedious  in  this  little  sketch, 
We  try  to  tell  of  the  times  of  old. 

Each  house,  at  times,  was  made  hotel, 
And  oft  with  friendly  guests  was  filled, 

Who  came  in  squads  and  families, 
And  who  oft  for  days  were  billed. 

Friends  would  come  from  many  a  mile, 
In  old-time  coach  and  baggage  carts, 

Children,  servants,  sometimes  their  dogs. 
And  they  would  come  with  jolly  hearts. 

Then  fowls  and  swine,  and  fatted  calf, 

So  freely  slain  on  their  advent, 
And  warm  welcome  greeted  everyone, 

Such  welcome  as  was  surely  meant. 

Would  feast  and  frolic,  and  entertain, 
So  the  old-time  days  flew  by  apace, 

Played  old-time  games,  as  blindman's  buff, 
The  boys  would  jump  and  run  foot  race. 


OR,    T11K    WOULD     MAS    CHANGED. 

Their  daily  sports  to  hunt  and  lish, 
The  nights  made  merry  with  the  dance, 

Neighbors  called  to  swell'  the  throng, 
Help  out  the  fun  and  hold  parlance. 

No  morn  nor  eve  allowed  to  lag, 
Each  day  had  its  own  sensation, 

Fun  and  frolic  was  in  the  wind, 
Those  old-time  days  of  recreation. 

They  had  good  times  throughout  the  year, 
But  Christmas  capped  the  climax, 

Every  door  thrown  wide  open  then, 
Hung  with  mistletoe  and  smilax. 

Santa  Clause  ne'er  failed  to  come, 
Nor  the  little  ones,  unbefriended, 

Hanging  stocking  ne'er  failed  to  fill, 
For  he  ever  came  full-handed. 

Time  was  not  counted  money  then, 
Lucre  needed,  sires  freely  gave, 

Would  run  accounts  with  all  the  stores , 
And  never  sought  a  bill  to  stave. 

Each  family  had  yearly  account, 

Everybody  would  do  to  trust, 
Tho'  prodigal  the  total  amount, 

The  money  due,  down  came  the  dust. 

Ah  !  Those  were  rosy,  daisy  days, 
But  now  have  gone,  gone  glimmering, 

Love  to  think  of  those  happy  days, 
Whilst  our  life  away  is  simmering. 


;;,;  THE  FOGY  BAYS  AND  NOW  5 

THE  HALCYON  DAYS. 

Since  then  have  seen  a  bit  of  the  world, 
Had  trials,  seeming  of  perdition, 

In  all  our  wanderings  never  known 
A  people  happier  in  their  condition. 

Intelligence,  freed  from  fashion's  chains, 
Wealth,  divorced  from  aristocracy, 

When  heart  was  free  to  show  its  hand, 
'Twas  time  of  the  true  democracy. 

Such  was  confidence,  that  money  loaned, 
'Twas  rarely  asked  to  give  a  note, 

Promise  was  better  guarantee 
Than  legal  paper  daftly  wrote. 

Don't  claim  there  were  no  rascals  then, 
That  would  be  to  cheat  the  devil, 

Admitted  fact  since  Adam  sinned, 
There  has  been  more  or  less  of  evil. 

There  was  a  social  line  and  plummet, 
Character  weighed  more  than  gold, 

The  man  who  did  a  dirty  trick 
The  good  people  would  not  uphold. 

They  despised  that  narrow  leanness, 
The  Yankee  grip  on  a  quarter, 

Happier  to  bestow  than  receive, 
And  their  favors  flowed  like  water. 

Did  not  consider  swindle  smart, 
Did  not  seek  to  rob  a  neighbor, 

Would  not  lose  sleep  to  undermine, 
But  for  the  right  they  would  labor. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  37 

Bible  folks,  too,  that  is  mostly, 

Humanity  never  was  perfected, 
One  cheek  smote,  the  other  turned, 

Then  it  was  that  they  reflected. 

Winked  at  the  old  code  duello, 

Where  there  could  be  no  compromise, 
Where  blood  or  life  must  wipe  out 

Stains  'twould  not  do  to  temporise. 

And  to-day  'tis  an  honest  querry, 

If  'tis  not  best  mode  of  settlement, 
Where  honor  is  so  deep  involved, 

To  make  a  test  of  raettlement. 

Now  looked  upon  as  barbarous, 

This  great  age  the  code  discarded, 
Old  times  belonged  to  refinement, 

To  best  classes  was  awarded. 

'Tvvas  handed  down  from  chivalry, 

Days  of  Fitz  James  and  Roderick  Dhne, 
Of  bonnie  Scotland's  literature, 

Doubt  if  we,  better  type,  don't  yon  ? 

Our  old  time  folks  had  fogy  ways, 

A  cowardheartily  did  despise, 
Thief,  even  too  low  for  contempt, 

And  a  liar  would  soon  assize. 

In  truth,  they  stood  on  higher  plain, 

Their  social  order  less  impure, 
Less  of  deceit  than  this  fast  day, 

And  in  virtue  far  more  secure. 

The  war  has  brought  its  bad  results, 

And  our  old  customs  it  has  changed, 
Are  learning  fast  the  Yankee  plans, 

From  the  right  we  have  been  estranged. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    A>fD    NOW; 


THE  OLD  SLAVE  REGIME. 


Our  paternal  grounds  spread  out  wide, 
View  them  o'er  took  many  a  stride, 
Were  owners  too  of  many  slaves, 
Who  worked  our  crops,  dug  our  graves. 

Cooked  our  food,  brushed  our  suits, 
Hitched  our  teams,  blacked  our  boots, 
Hauled  the  wood  and  made  the  fires, 
And  did  these  things  for  our  sires. 

Kept  a  dozen  about  the  house, 
Some  in  livery,  some  in  blouse ; 
Fed  and  clothed,  thrashed  them  well, 
If  they  got  too  mean,  then  would  sell. 

Master  was  good,  if  slave  was  true, 
And  such  were  nicely  treated  too ; 
Did  as  well  for  them  as  we  could, 
Doubtless  as  well  as  Yankees  would. 

Gave  them  tobacco,  sometimes  dram, 
These  were  the  things  that  tickled  Sam-(bo), 
And  made  his  white  teeth  to  shine, 
When  well  pleased  this  was  the  sign. 

Their  little  cabins  were  all  in  line, 
Like  little  town,  but  not  so  fine ; 
Twas  what  we  called  the  quarter, 
Near  some  spring,  or  running  water. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED. 

Rations  per  week,  a  peck  of  meal, 
Measured  correct  in  high  state  seal, 
Besides  a  pint  of  molasses, 
They  provide  all  other  sasses. 

Three  pounds  bacon,  woe  or  weal, 
Thribble  as  much,  if  beef  or  veal 
A  good  patch,  too,  each  family  had, 
With  right  to  work  it  good  or  bad. 

Saturday's  gave  them  half  the  day, 
To  work  their  patches  or  to  play, 
And  at  night  they  would  pat  and  jig, 
Monday  morning  its  plow  and  dig. 

Some  had  chickens,  a  pig  and  a  cow, 
How  many  nigs  doing  better  now? 
Some  were  lazy,  some  had  thrift, 
Some  would  work,  some  had  to  lift. 

A  Sunday  rule,  they  must  come  out, 
In  their  best  suits  were  to  be  seen, 

Their  kinky  heads  be  carded  up, 

Sunday  must  show  up  neat  and  clean. 

Sometimes  he'd  rob  master's  roost, 
Sometimes  master  made  him  boost, 
And  then  again  he'd  run  away, 
But  then  again  'twas  master's  day. 

And  Sambo  said,  more  rain  more  ress; 
What,  sir?    "  I  sez  more  rain  more  grass.  " 
Ah,  said  master,  pretty  well  done, 
You  rascally  African  son. 


40  THE    FOGV    DAYS    AND    NOW: 

One  peculiarity  is  his  scent, 
Whene'er  he  moves  he  gives  it  vent ; 
After  all  has  been  a  useful  race, 
After  all,  a  good  thing  in  its  place. 

Once  Sambo  to  the  Lord  did  pray, 
Master  Lord,  let  me  die  dis  day ; 
Wicked  boy  ensconsced  o'er  head, 
Cried  out,  Sambo,  and  to  him  said : 

Come,  Sambo,  your  prayer  is  heard, 
Come  home,  the  Lord  has  got  your  word. 
Who  dat,  cried  Sambo,  who  sed  so, 
Dat  you  marse  angel,  call  Sambo? 

Done  come  for  him.  is  dat  you  say  ? 
Why  he  done  dead  de  lass  tree  day ; 
Marse  angel  tell  em  him  done  gone, 
Yessa,  he  done  dead,  dis  same  one. 

A  truth  that  claims  recognition, 
Their  one  great  trait,  superstition ; 
For  take  them  one  or  by  the  hosts, 
As  a  race,  all  believe  in  ghosts. 

Southern  slavery  may  have  been  sin, 
But  the  Bible  does  not  show  it ; 

There  is  abuse  in  everything, 
If  forbid,  would  like  to  know  it. 

By  Yankee  means  he  now  is  free, 
We  believe  the  Lord  hath  done  it ; 

His  days  of  bondage  had  run  out, 
By  the  powers  above  he  won  it. 


OE,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  4i 

Flames  first  kindled  by  Madame  Stowe, 

Crazy  John  Brown  then  made  it  roar, 
On  to  the  bloody  shirt  Jo-day, 

Flaunted  by  grannies  Ben  and  Hoar. 

May  be  the  Lord  to  Christianize, 

Allowed  Yanks  to  do  the  stealing; 
Sold  the  niggers,  then  felt  the  sin, 

Got  the  pay,  then  did  the  squealing. 

And  so  the  nig  was  the  winner, 

But  our  Yank  he  got  the  credit; 
Poor  Dixie  was  a  cat's  paw  made, 

And  to  the  Rebel  falls  the  debit. 

But  slaves  were  happy  in  the  main, 

Of  course,  exceptions  in  all  cases, 
No  heavenly  state  here  below, 

'Tis  not  in  reach  of  earthly  races. 

Let's  have  old  Sambo  take  the  stand, 

Let  old  time  nigger  tell  the  truth, 
Which  times  were  best,  freedom  times, 

Or  the  old  slave  times  of  your  youth. 
Were  you  happier  then  or  now? 

Give  us  truth,  weigh  upon  the  scales, 
As  slaves  were  you  not  free  from  cares, 

Your  only  fears  the  lash  and  sales? 

Didn't  love  poor  bucra  overseer, 

Your  terror  was  the  patter-roll ; 
To  leave  your  home  must  have  a  pass, 

Or  risk  your  heels  to  save  your  poll. 

Have  you  forgot  your  little  thefts, 

Of  all  the  chickens  you  have  stole, 
Of  the  tater  patches  you  have  robbed, 

Couldn't  count  them  for  your  soul. 


4.,  TIIK   FOGY   DAYS   AND   NOW; 

You  had  your  faults  and  had  good  traits, 
Were  faithful  in  our  distress, 

Were  tme  to  us  in  time  of  war, 
Left  in  charge  of  our  business. 

A  happier  people  ne'er  was  known, 
Than  the  old-time  Sunny  South, 

Including  slavery  in  its  bonds, 
Subject  of  so  much  Yankee  mouth. 

THE    CORN    SHUCKING. 

But  best  of  all  he  loved  to  sing, 

And  in  song  indeed  was  gifted, 
The  field  and  wood  he  made  to  ring, 

Belly  full,  into  song  he  drifted. 
His  gala  time— the  corn  shucking— 

No  cards  needed  to  bring  him  in ; 
As  sun  went  down  could  hear  him  shout, 

For  he  was  coming  to  the  binn. 

When  full  gathered,  a  motley  crew, 
They  would  come  from  many  a  mile, 

Without  regard  to  sex  or  size, 
Would  gather  around  a  corn  pile. 

First  choose  their  leaders  for  the  fray, 
And  then  the  leaders  pick  their  sides, 

The  pile  of  corn  is  struck  in  half, 
Over  which  each  captain  now  presides. 

Word  given  then  a  rip  of  shucks, 
The  ears  go  flying  o'er  the  pile, 

Shucks  are  pushed  back  to  the  rear, 
The  captain  cheering  all  the  while. 

Each  leader  walks  on  top  the  pile, 
Midst  the  showering  ears  of  corn, 

They  walk  and  shout  and  lead  the  song, 
And  far  away  their  songs  are  borne. 


OK,    THK    AVORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  43 

The  war  waxes  to  fury  fast, 

'Tis  strife,  who  shall  the  victory  win, 
The  pile  grows  less  at  every  turn, 

No  fiercer  fight,  tho'  thousands  slain. 

All  through  the  clash  the  jug  goes  round, 

From  mouth  to  mouth  the  goody  went, 
As  fast,  faster  the  corn  would  fly, 

'Till  the  unshucked  corn  was  spent. 

'Tis  then  tho  victors  heave  a  shout, 

A  shout  that  rends  the  very  skies, 
Now  the  devil  seems  turned  loose, 

And  its  now  the  master  flies. 

For  the  boss  is  seized  if  found, 

Is  hoisted  o'er  the  darkey  heads, 
With  shout  and  song  they  bear  him  round, 

To  where  the  supper  table's  spread. 

In  home  yard,  on  rude  table  laid, 

Is  fowl  and  shoat,  and  lusty  pies, 
'Possum  and  'tater,  many  a  dish, 

Canopy  o'er  head,  God's  blue  sky. 

And  next  the  fiddler  thumps  his  strings, 

A  dusky  crowd  round  pine  torch  light, 
And  dance  with  all  their  might  and  main, 

Regardless  of  the  fleeting  night. 

There  never  was  a  happier  race, 

If  they  could  have  been  left  alone, 
'Twas  hatred  that  stirred  up  the  fuss, 

The  Yanks  were  jealous  of  our  bone. 


44  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW 

To  solve  their  future,  the  problem, 

One  intricate  to  unravel, 
Shall  they  stay?    Must  they  go,  01  no? 

We  think  they  will  have  to  travel. 

"Tis  the  great  question  of  the  day, 
He  has  already  cut  a  figger, 

He'll  never  ride  the  upper  rail : 
But  just  now  we'll  drop  the  nigger. 


OH,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  45 


THE  SUNNY  SOUTH. 


REAT  mistake  think  our  fathers  made, 

Raised  their  sons  without  work  or  trade, 
Raised  as  gentlemen,  were  not  prepared, 
If  had  been  trained,  had  better  fared. 

In  those  evil  times  that  were  in  store, 
In  the  troubles  that  tried  them  sore, 
They  felt  the  keener  that  distress, 
Consequent  upon  their  idleness. 

Were  taught  in  honor — that  was  well ; 
But  that  alone  doth  not  propel ; 
They  learned  aptly  how  to  spend, 
This  was  their  trouble  in  the  end. 

Wrong  idea  of  the  old  time  South, 
Thus  a  noble  generation  was  lost ; 

111  prepared  to  meet  and  grapple, 
They  have  learned  at  heavy  cost. 

The  world  was  not  made  in  a  day, 

Takes  longer  to  make  a  nation, 
And  blood  that  tells  take  time  to  breed, 

Must  have  culture  and  recreation. 

The  works  of  time  may  be  impaired, 
Noblest  monument  may  be  marred, 

The  grand  old  oak  may  be  despoiled, 
And  its  rootlets  all  be  scarred. 


THE   FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW 

So  the  grand  old  South  long  had  stood, 
Its  great  branches  were  spreading  wide, 

A  brother's  axe  hath  cut  it  down, 
And  e'en  prostrate  they  still  deride. 

Nor  spared  in  hatred,  yet  pursue, 
E'en  in  defeat  they  still  would  vex, 

And  seek  to  hoist  an  accursed  race 
To  place  their  feet  upon  our  necks. 

They  shirked  the  slave  off  on  us, 
Because  they  could  not  make  him  pay, 

Then  again  they  were  dissatified, 
Have  robbed  us,  stolen  them  away. 

In  their  zeal,  'twas  "  snake  in  the  grass ;  " 
We  do  not  speak  in  hate  or  spleen, 

We  do  not  wish  the  Yankees  harm, 
We  do  not  think  they  all  are  mean. 

They  made  their  money  out  of  us, 
We  hewed  the  wood,  drawed  the  water; 

Our  good  friends  when  served  their  ends, 
Gave  big  end  in  every  barter. 

Now  we  are  glad  the  negro's  free, 
Tho'  'twas  hard  at  first  to  swallow, 

Has  broken  up  old  fogy  plans, 
In  which  we  were  want  to  wallow. 

Now  we  grow,  even  more  than  they, 
And  in  progression  shall  compete ; 

We'll  make  our  cotton  into  cloth, 
Thus  their  own  plans  will  defeat. 

The  South  will  run  her  factories, 
Run  them  for  all  the  money's  worth ; 

Tariff  paid  them  will  keep  at  home, 
We  will  have  the  new  South  henceforth. 


OK,    TIIK     WOULD    HAS    rHANCKI).  47 

Tis  a  lonjr  lane  that  never  turns, 

Hair  from  dog  is  good  for  the  bite, 
Just  keep  still,  and  things  will  turn  round, 

Darkest  hour  comes  before  daylight. 

Blood  will  tell,  tho'  it  seemeth  dead, 

Will  rejuvenate,  will  flow  again, 
Scions  will  spring  and  flourish  here, 

Tho'  the  paternal  stalk  be  slain. 

New  scions  shall  take  the  firmer  root, 

True  scions  from  a  noble  race, 
Who  shall  be  rulers  of  this  land. 

No  darker  blood  can  e'er  displace. 

For  'tis  written  in  their  very  hearts, 

Written  there  in  blood's  red  ink, 
'Twill  never  be  recorded  here, 

We  are  ruled  by  a  race  that  st-kink. 

Let  Southern  States  as  sisters  be, 

True  sisters  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Their  native  worth  is  sure  to  win, 

There's  none  like  them  in  all  the  land. 

Like  lilies  bent  by  stormy  blasts, 

And  as  the  eagle  stoops  to  rise, 
Fair  Dixie  thou  hast  but  to  wait, 

For  thou  shalt  soar  as  the  eagle  flies. 

FIFTY    TEARS    AGO. 

Fifty  years  ago,  age  of  content, 

Before  fashion's  laws  were  defied, 
And  our  worship  was  so  simple  then, 

When  our  wants  were  not  so  amplified. 


48  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

Walked  in  the  paths  our  fathers  trod, 
In  suppliance  bent  the  humble  knee, 

Took  our  dinners  to  the  meeting  house, 
And  was  so  glad  each  other  to  see. 

In  those  frugal  days  our  wants  were  few, 
The  only  fashion  was  to  be  neat, 

Didn't  care  much  for  outside  show, 
But  sure  have  something  good  to  eat. 

Better  days  than  now,  it  seems  to  us, 
Although  didn't  know  nea'r  so  much, 

And  some  things  are  glad  we  didn't  know  ; 
Indeed,  would  have  been  ashamed  to  touch. 

Before  the  day  of  the  patent  pill, 
Days  of  the  lancet,  the  calomel, 

Doctors  didn't  try  to  size  your  pile, 
But  worked  harder  to  get  you  well. 

And  justice  was  better  rneeted  out, 
Tho'  the  lawyers  were  not  so  plenty, 

And  neighbors  were  less  at  logger-heads, 
Not  so  many  suits,  not  one  to  twenty. 

Our  preachers  then  were  humbler,  too, 
Like  Paul,  labored  for  their  living, 

Preached  because  they  loved  the  Lord, 
Wan't  so  rantankerous  'bout  giving. 

At  church  they  sang  most  sacred  songs, 

To  the  old  time  fogy  meter, 
And  these  old  songs  didn't  make  you  feel 

As  in  a  circus  or  theater. 

Sang  hymns  to  the  old  familiar  tunes, 
Were  sacred  in  all  their  bearings, 

Could  not  mistake  it  for  caterwaul, 
For  naughty  "felines  on  a  tearing. 


OK,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  49 

'Twas  antideluvian  as  to  choirs, 

Had  no  big  bellowing  church  organs, 
And  the  congregation  sang  God's  praise, 

Did  not  hire  his  songs  out  to  bargains. 

Music  modern,  now  a  thing  of  art, 

Fine  art  of  difficult  execution, 
Introduced  to  meet  new  demands, 

O;  this  progressive  age  of  fashion. 

E'en  that  good  old  time  Virginia  reel, 

Of  all  the  dances  most  inspiring, 
The  real  test  of  the  heel  and  toe, 

C  mdemned  as  fogy,  undesiring. 

'Tis  true  we  hail  from  a  fogy  day, 

Since  then  the  era  of  invention ; 
We  were  a  happier  people  then 

In  many  ways  that  we  might  mention. 

Those  times  never  heard  of  matches, 

Lucifer  (not  Adam  and  Eve) 
Lighted  our  fires  with  flint  and  steel, 

'Tis  the  truth,  tho'  it's  hard  to  believe. 

Our  old  time  guns  had  priming  pans, 
'Twas  before  the  age  of  percussion, 

« 

Such  the  backwardness  of  the  times, 
This  we'll  yield  without  discussion. 

No  steel  pens  nor  gold  diamond  points, 

With  goose  quills  all  our  letters  wrote, 
The  coach  or  wagon  our  carriers  then, 

Our  freight  often  came  by  pole-boat. 

Mails  were  slow  and  postage  dear, 

Sealed  letters  with  wafers  or  with  wax, 
Hail  no  envelopes,  no  postage  stamps, 

We  write  no  fiction,  but  naked  facts. 


;,0  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

There  was  not  a  railroad  in  the  land, 
Never  a  steamer  plowed  the  sea, 

Telegraph,  telephone,  all  unknown, 
Nor  dreamed  of  in  all  eternity. 

Washing  and  churning  done  by  hand, 
Pine  torch  or  candles  gave  us  light, 

Nor  stove,  nor  range  to  cook  our  food, 
Swinging  pot-rack  was  our  delight. 

No  thought  of  a  sewing  machine. 
Nor  phonograph  nor  velocipede, 

We  had  hearn  tell  of  the  elephant, 
In  fact  one  of  them  we  had  seed. 

Then  the  printing  press  was  very  crude, 
And  pictures  they  were  powerful  scace ; 

Were  way  behind  in  all  these  things, 
But  we  were  a  mighty  happy  race. 

Before  diskivery  of  coal  and  ile, 
We  still  wonder  at  the  electric  light ; 

Now  the  street  car,  dummies  they  surprise, 
Reckon  we  was  sorter  in  the  night. 

What  comes  next?    We  may  learn  to  fly, 
And  gold  will  be  made  out  of  clay, 

Everybody  will  become  so  rich 
Will  be  nothing  to  do  but  play. 

And  then  what  next  is  hard  to  tell, 
May  be  that  the  girls  will  sprout  wings, 

Already  they  seem  to  fly  around, 
And  do  some  mighty  funny  things. 

A  word  about  the  ladies  of  the  day, 
One  thing  doth  most  sensibly  impress, 

Their  skirts  have  got  the  natural  shape, 
Resemble  our  old  mother's  dress. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  51 

Our  fogy  ladies  were  not  so  fast, 

They  were  too  true  and  kind  to  flirt. 
Did  not  go  promenading  round, 

But  they  kivered  a  heap  more  dirt. 

Our  kids  had  more  respect  for  age, 

No,  they  warn't  nothing  like  so  peart, 
If  skedaddled  round  like  to-day. 

Why,  they'd  hat-ter  haul  off  their  shirt. 

Nor  they  didn't  smoke  the  cigarette, 

But  did  inginerally  chaw  tobacker ; 
Did  many  things  they  oughten  to, 

Our  old-time  fogy  country  cracker, 

The  female  bustle  was  then  well  known, 

But  was  built  in  a  different  form, 
Made  out  of  rags  and  stuffed  with  tow, 

Or  paper  'bout  the  size  of  your  arm. 

Prior  to  the  days  of  hoopskirts,  too, 

They  warn't  so  waspish  in  the  waist, 
The  dear  sweet  things  didn't  like  to  sting, 

'Twas  before  they  acquired  that  taste. 

There  was  a  creature,  that  then  unknown, 

Malformation  now  called  the  dude, 
A  hypersarcostic  sort  of  thing. 

With  little  common  sense  imbued. 

The  changes  wrought  in  fifty  years, 

What  we  have  told  is  but  an  inkle, 
Invention  is  still  upon  the  tare, 

Would  stun  a  new  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

Now  these  public  schools,  the  great  jehu  ! 

They  dish  out  larnin'  by  the  platter, 
Why,  they  pour  it  down  and  rub  it  in, 

They  fry  it  in  the  children's  batter. 


52  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

Babies  now  are  chocked  and  crammed, 
Are  just  loaded  down  with  knowledge, 

Soon  as  their  bibbs  are  taken  off, 
Are  prepared  to  enter  college. 

George  Washington  was  a  mighty  man, 
In  days  of  which  we've  been  speaking; 

Could  he  come  back,  a  goose  he'd  be, 
It  would  make  him  feel  real  sneaking. 

Then  what  about  old  man  Franklin? 

The  man  who  first  cotch  the  lightning ; 
Could  he  see  half  that's  now  been  done, 

Why,  he  couldn't  keep  from  frightning. 

And  that  old-time  orator,  Patrick  Henry, 
That  liberty  speech  he  seemed  a  cordon, 

But,  goodness  gracious,  in  thJs  great  day, 
Whar'd  he  be  'ginst  Grady  and  Gordon  ? 

John  Wesley,  he  was  a  "  hustler  "  then, 
Counted  powerful  in  a  scrimmage, 

But  to  set  him  down  in  these  big  times, 
With  sich  as  Sam  Jones  and  Talmage. 

Old  man  Girrard  was  then  thought  rich, 
And  so  was  Mr.  John  Jacob  Aetor, 

But  millionaires  of  the  present  day, 
Have  possessions  greatly  vaster. 

Merchants,  lawyers,  doctors  all  progress, 
Mechanics  is  the  greatest  wonder, 

And  farmeis  who  held  the  biggest  cards, 
Are  the  worst  of  all  snowed  under. 

We  seem  to  live  in  a  different  world, 
The  old  ball  seems  turned  inside  out, 

Things  aint  running  as  they  use  to  was, 
No,  they  aint  agwine  as  they  mout. 


Ofe,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED. 

The  sun's  the  same,  the  world  has  changed, 
Sun  looks  all  right,  shines  as  bright, 

And  the  stars  twinkle  as  they  ever  did, 
But  the  world  has  changed  its  plight. 

The  firmaments  stand  as  firmly  fixed, 
Our  mother's  Bible  reads  as  of  old, 

The  change  must  be  in  our  fellow-man, 
He's  patterned  in  a  different  mould. 

It  may  be  all  right,  it  may  be  wrong, 
The  change  may  be  to  man's  interest, 

But  we  fear  the  devil's  in  the  deal, 

For  his  cards  seem  to  show  up  the  best. 


THE  FOGY  PAYS  AND  NOAV ; 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  65 


Old  Pendleton— A  Sketch  of  Old  South  Carolina. 


\  ,  /HAT  hallowed  associations  does  the  name  of  this  old  vil 
lage  conjure  up — how  often  in  thought  do  we  wander 
back  there.  Old  landmarks  arid  many  reminders  are  still  to  be 
seen,  but  the  kindly  faces  and  precious  souls  have  nearly  all 
gone  across  the  bourne.  We  hope  to  meet  them  again  in  the 
better  land,  and  if  admitted  into  the  eternal  realms  of  bliss, 
and  as  time  rolls  on  her  endless  cycles,  we  feel  that  now  and 
then  we  should  still  be  constrained  to  spare  a  moment  to  peep 
down  upon  the  old  familiar  spot,  where  our  first  fond  hopes 
on  earth  aspired  and  indulged  in  many  bright  anticipations, 
which  have  never  been  realized. 

Fifty  years  ago  old  Pendleton  was  the  fairest  town  in  upper 
South  Carolina,  a  community  of  wealth,  intelligence,  refine 
ment  and  religion,  and  the  home  of  the  best  people  it  has  ever 
fallen  to  our  lot  to  know.  A  resort  of  giant  minds  who  would 
do  honor  to  any  age  of  the  world's  history — such  men  as  John 
C.  Calhoun,  Langdon  Chevis,  Daniel  Huger,  Warren  R.  Davis, 
John  Taylor,  David  K.  Hamilton,  the  Pinkneys,  Haynes, 
Earles,  the  Generals  Pickens,  Anderson,  Blassengame;  the 
Colonels  Warren,  Allston  and  Boul'on,  and  the  homes  of  Bar 
nard  E.  Bee,  the  Stevens  brothers,  of  Charleston  gunboat 
fame,  of  Confederate  times,  home  of  John  and  Pat  Calhoun, 
the  well-known  young  financiers  of  to-day ;  and  from  those 
old  hills  came  our  astute  ex-Senator  Joseph  E.  Brown,  and 


fjfl  THE    FOGY    DAYS   AND    NOW  J 

Atlanta's  brainiest  man,  Dr.  H.  V.  M.  Miller;  General  Rusk, 
of  Texas,  a  power  in  his  day ;  Governors  Perry  and  Orr,  Com 
modore  Stribling,  of  the  navy,  and  hundreds  who  have  left 
their  impress  upon  this  new  world,  and  in  their  day  and  time 
helped  to  lay  the  foundation  and  build  up  this  great  country, 
and  a  host  of  others  whose  honorable  names  and  useful  citi 
zenship  would  challenge  the  world  for  comparison.  Such  was 
the  status  of  old  Pendleton  fifty  years  ago,  when  in  the  full 
tide  of  her  prosperity.  A  splendid  Piedmont  climate,  with 
fertile  lands,  and  under  the  old  slave  regime ;  and  then  the 
wealth  resided  in  the  country,  and  agricultural  pursuits  were 
regarded  second  to  none  other  as  an  occupation  of  honor  and 
profit,  and  were  conducted  with  an  intelligence  and  advance 
ment  scarcely  surpassed  to-day  in  the  South. 

It  was  in  the  streets  of  old  Pendleton  that  her  indignant 
citizens  kindled  the  bonfire  that  consumed  in  its  flames 
the  first  incendiary  papers  and  letters  sent  South  by  the  abo 
litionists  to  stir  up  strife  and  discord  among  a  happy  people. 

One  of  the  first  female  high  schools  in  the  South  was  con 
ducted  there  by  Misses  Bates  and  Billings,  from  Vermont,  who 
taught  the  young  ladies  etiquette  and  French,  graceful  atti 
tudes,  and  "  highfalutin'  notions,"  modern  manners,  to  walk 
daintily,  and  to  scream  fashionably  at  a  bug  or  a  mouse. 

One  of  the  first  military  academies,  where  the  boys  drilled 
daily,  and  wore  gray  uniforms  and  brass  buttons,  was  con 
ducted  there. 

My  first  recollection  of  a  Sunday  School  was  there  in  the 
old  Baptist  Church,  which  is  still  standing.  Uncle  Tommy 
Sloan  and  Mrs.  Fanny  Mayse  were  the  managing  and  leading 
spirits.  We  had  little  thumb  catechisms,  and  the  first  and 
second  questions  were,  "  Who  made  man  ?"  «  Of  what  did 
God  make  man  ?" 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANG  KD.  57 

The  first  cooking  stove  I  ever  heard  of,  my  father  bought, 
and  was  describing  its  excellences  to  Uncle  Tommy,  and  among 
its  other  advantages  he  said  :  "  Why,  Tommy,  it  will  save  half 
the  fuel ;"  when  Uncle  Tommy  replied  :  "Well,  Billy,  why  not 
get  two  of  them,  and  save  all  the  fuel  ?" 

One  of  the  first  cotton  factories  was  established  at  Pendleton 
and  run  with  great  success  and  profit  for  many  years,  and  up  to 
his  death,  by  Major  B.  F.  Sloan,  and  is  still  in  operation  by 
the  Sittons. 

Pendleton  had  her  agricultural  society,  fair  grounds  and 
race  track,  and  some  of  her  exhibitions  would  put  to  blush 
many  fairs  of  the  present  day. 

Pendleton  had  four  flourishing  churches,  two  hotels ;  and 
who  of  her  old  citizens  do  not  remember  the  long  ball-room 
in  the  old  Tom  Cherry  Hotel,  and  the  beautiful  young  girls 
who  once  skimmed  like  swallows  over  those  well-waxed  floors, 
and  the  stately  matrons,  who,  as  chaperones,  patronized  with 
their  presence  these  delightful  occasions,  and  gave  dignity  and 
respectability  to  the  ball-room  ?  The  old  debating  society, 
held  in  the  old  Farmers'  Hall,  and  ever  graced  by  a  full  at 
tendance  of  the  fair  sex?  The  magnificent  coaches  and  the 
elegant  spans  of  horses  that  whirled  up  the  dust  in  the  streets 
of  the  old  town  ?  What  old  citizen's  heart  is  not  made  to 
throb  at  the  recollection  of  thrilling  notes  from  the  stage  horn, 
borne  over  the  hills  to  notify  them  of  its  coming?  How  the 
people  would  gather  around  the  hotels  and  the  postoffice  as  the 
great  rocking,  ponderous  vehicle  came  rolling  and  swaying 
over  the  rocks,  drawn  by  four  or  six  horses,  dashing  in  at  a 
gallop  into  the  center  of  the  old  town,  with  its  passengers  and 
mail.  And  with  what  eager  excitement  the  citizens  sought 
to  welcome  friends  and  visitors,  and  receive  the  tardy  news. 


58  THE    FOi.Y    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

Who  does  not  remember  the  old  "Pendleton  Messenger"  and 
Dr.  F.  W.  Symmes,  its  editor,  and  the  old  "Farmer  and 
Planter,"  and  Major  George  Seabourne,  proprietor  and  pub 
lisher;  Mr.  E.  B.  Benson,  the  long-time  merchant,  and  old 
Billy  Hubbard,  the  jolly  landlord ;  the  old  English  dancing 
master,  Walon  ;  rich  old  Sam  Maverick,  the  eccentric ;  old  man 
Sid  Cherry,  the  bachelor;  old  Tommy  Christian,  the  town 
marshal,  and  many  other  notables  we  have  not  space  here  to 
mention  ? 

The  first  farmers'  society  in  the  South  was  inaugurated  at 
old  Pendleton  in  the  year  1815,  and  was  known  as  the  "Pen 
dleton  Farmers'  Society,"  and,  if  we  are  not  misinformed,  the 
second  society  of  its  kind  in  the  United  States,  and  the  third 
in  Charleston,  in  1818,  the  first  being  in  Philadelphia.  The 
first  officers  of  the  "Pendleton  Farmers'  Society"  were  James 
C.  Griffin,  President ;  Josiah  Golliard,  Vice-President ;  Colo 
nel  Robert  Anderson,  Secretary;  Joseph  V.  Shanklin,  Treas 
urer  and  Corresponding  Secretary.  Its  honorary  members 
were  General  Thomas  Pinkney,  Honorable  Wm.  Lowndes, 
Honorable  C.  C.  Pinkney,  R.  S.  Izzard,  Esq.,  J.  R.  Pringle, 
Esq.,  Doctor  J.  Noble,  General  Daniel  Hnger,  Honorable 
John  C.  Calhoun,  Colonel  J.  Bonl'on,  Colonel  L.  J.  Allston, 
Reverend  Doctor  Waddell.  General  John  Blassengame,  D.  P. 
Hillhouse,  Doctor  Isaac  Auld,  Doctor  C.  M.  Reese,  of  Phila 
delphia. 

And  among  the  earliest  resident  members  were  Thos.  Pink 
ney,  John  L.  North,  Andrew  Pickens,  Benjamin  Smith,  John 
Miller,  Charles  Galliard,  John  E.  Calhoun,  J.  Taliaferro  Lewis, 
Doctor  Thomas  L.  Dart,  General  J.  B.  Earle,  William  Hunter, 
Benjamin  Dupree,  Joseph  Gresham,  L.  McGregor,  Samuel 
Earle,  Richard  Harrison,  Patrick  Norris,  J.  C.  Kilpatrick,  Jo- 


OR,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  69 

seph  Earle,  T.  W.  Farrar,  C.  W.  Miller,  Samuel  Cherry,  John 
Taylor,  J.  C.  Griffin,  Colonel  Robert  Anderson,  Thomas  Strib- 
ling,  John  Greene,  Josiah  Galliard,  Francis  Burt,  John  Hun_ 
ter,  W.  S.  Adair,  William  Taylor,  William  Anderson,  Thomas 
M.  Sloan,  Joseph  Mitchell,  Thomas  Lorton,  Reverend  James 
Hillhouse,  Benjamin  Dickson,  Richard  Lewis,  J.  B.  Hammond, 
John  Holbert,  Robert  Lemon,  John  Hall,  David  Cherry,  Chas. 
Story,  McKenzie  Collins,  George  Taylor,  Theodore  Galliard, 
Samuel  Gassaway,  R.  A.  Maxwell,  Jesse  P.  Lewis,  Doctor  F. 
W.  Symrnes,  George  Reese,  James  Farris,  James  O.  Lewis, 
Henry  McReary,  David  K.  Hamilton,  Major  George  Seaborn, 
Major  R.  F.  Simpson,  E.  B.  Benson,  B.  F.  Perry,  Geo.  Reese, 
George  Liddell,  David  Sloan,  J.  B.  Perry,  John  Martin,  T. 
Farrar,  Warren  R.  Davis,  William  Gaston,  John  Maxwell, 
William  Sloan,  William  Hubbard,  Elam  Sharpe,  Leonard 
Simpson,  Samuel  Taylor,  Major  Lewis,  William  Steele,  James 
Lawrence. 

And  this  old  Farmers'  Society,  organized  seventy-five  years 
ago,  is  still  in  existence,  and  flourishing  under  the  administra 
tion  of  the  present  officers,  D.  K.  Norris,  President;  J.  C. 
Stribling,  Vice-President ;  G.  E.  Taylor,  Secretary  and  Treas 
urer;  J.  B.  Sitton,  J.  D.  Smith,  James  Hunter,  W.  H.  D.  Gal 
liard,  H.  S.  Trescot,  Executive  Committee. 

Let  all  honor  be  given  to  the  old  Pendleton  Farmers'  So 
ciety,  the  pioneer  of  our  Southern  agriculture,  the  first  organ 
ization  of  its  kind  in  the  sunny  South,  and  nowhere  in  the 
State  to-day  can  be  found  greener  pastures,  finer  stock,  or 
better  farming,  than  in  the  vicinity  of  this  venerable  old  vil 
lage,  all  due  to  the  grand  race  of  people  who  once  lived  and 
flourished  there,  and  at  that  time  one  of  the  most  intelligent 
and  delightful  communities  that  ever  existed  on  this  check- 


g()  THE    FOCY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

ered  earth,  and  where  to-day  can  be  found  a  brighter  galaxy 
of  names  and  more  honorable  men  than  these  recorded  on  the 
roll  of  the  Pendleton  Farmers'  Society. 

Once  more,  I  say,  let  it  be  remembered  in  this  ascending 
farmers'  era,  that  from  this  little  leaven  came  the  leaven  that 
shall  leaven  the  whole  lump. 

There,  too,  was  published  one  of  the  first  agricultural 
monthlies  in  the  South,  under  the  proprietorship  and  manage 
ment  of  Major  George  Seabourne,  "  The  Farmer  and  Planter," 
a  most  able  and  valuable  ally  to  the  Farmers'  Society,  and  did 
much  to  promote  the  spirit  of  agriculture  in  that  section  in  its 
day. 

It  is  the  opinion  of  many  persons  now  living  that  the  author 
of  the  Junius  Letters,  so  famous  in  their  day,  was  a  Pendle- 
tonian,  one  John  Miller,  formerly  the  King's  printer,  in  Lon 
don,  and  who  fled  from  England  on  account  of  some  political 
offense,  settled  at  Pendleton,  and  was  one  of  the  founders 
and  proprietors  of  the  "  Pendleton  Messenger,"  seventy-five 
years  ago.  As  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  the  authorship  of 
those  letters  were  currently  attributed  to  him. 

But  the  glory  of  the  old  town  has  long  since  departed — in 
the  first  place  shorn  of  her  Samson  locks,  robbed  of  her  terri 
tory  and  capitolcy,  the  great  district  cut  up  into  Anderson, 
Pickens  and  Oconee ;  and  the  railroads,  of  which  she  little 
dreamed  then,  have  ignored  her  claims,  stolen  away  her  thrift, 
and  now  the  good  old  town  of  auld-lang-syne  stands  out  for 
lorn,  gray  and  dilapidated  in  her  tottering  senility.  But  there 
still  lingers  a  fragrance  of  intelligence  and  refinement  in  her 
social  atmospheie  that  ever  strikes  the  visitor  with  admiration 
and  respect. 


OK,    THE    WOKL1>    HAS    CHANGED.  61 

Since  the  days  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  the  second 
and  third  generations  are  passing  from  the  stage  of  action, 
rapidly  losing  their  grip  on  life,  and  falling  off  into  the  sea  of 
time.  Of  the  second,  Colonel  Torn  Pickens,  Mr.  Dickson  and 
John  Sitton  alone  remain,  Mr.  William  Galliard  having  died 
but  recently,  and  but  a  remnant  of  the  third  generation  is  left. 
The  Clemson  Agricultural  College  is  now  being  erected  at  old 
Fort  Hill,  the  John  C.  Calhoun  place ;  a  fine  hotel  is  about  to 
be  built  at  old  Pendleton,  and  it  is  thought  the  old  town  is 
looking  up  somewhat.  May  the  Lord  bless  the  faithful  old 
spot,  and  may  she  become  once  more  as  she  was  in  the  days  of 
yore,  as  a  "city  set  upon  a  hill.  " 


THK    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 


JOHN  CALDWELL  CALHOUN. 


VITH  all  her  honors  in  the  olden* days,  perhaps  nothing 
gave  more  distinction  to  old  Pendleton  than  the  name 
of  John  C.  Calhoun,  for  that  was  his  home.  There  he  done 
his  trading;  there  he  schooled  his  children ;  there  he  and  his 
family  went  to  church ;  there  he  received  his  bulky  mails ; 
there  many  strangers  came  to  visit  him,  and  four  miles  from 
the  town  was  his  famous  Fort  Hill  farm,  a  splendid  property 
on  the  Seneca  river,  with  broad  acres  of  bottoms,  fertile 
uplands  and  forests  of  native  timber.  The  old  home  is  still 
standing,  a  roomy  but  unpretentious  looking  mansion,  over 
looking  the  Seneca  Valley  and  in  full  view  of  the  Blue  Ridge 
Mountains.  This  valuable  estate  was  inherited  by  Mr.  Clem- 
son,  Mr.  Calhoun's  son-in-law,  and  by  him  donated  to  the  State 
of  South  Carolina  for  the  purpose  of  an  agricultural  college, 
which  is  now  being  erected  near  the  old  mansion,  which  is,  I 
understand,  to  be  preserved  intact,  with  the  old  furniture  and 
bric-a-brac,  that  visitors  may  see  the  old  home  as  it  was  in  olden 
times. 

Mr.  Calhoun  was  very  fond  of  his  Fort  Hill  farm,  and 
during  his  vacations  from  Washington  gave  much  attention  to 
his  farming  interests.  He  was  first  to  introduce  into  that 
section  blooded  cattle,  and  I  can  remember  his  importation  of 
the  English  red  Devon  cows.  He  first  introduced  Bermuda 
grass  for  grazing  purposes.  This  grass  is  still  to  be  seen  on 
the  great  lawn  iti  front  of  the  old  mansion,  and  I  understand 


JOHN  C.  CALHOUN. 


OB,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  65 

this  same  Bermuda  grass  has  about  captured  all  of  the  fine 
bottom  land  on  the  place.  He  also  first  introduced  the  hill 
side  ditches.  I  remember  when  I  was  quite  a  boy,  seeing  him 
superintending,  surveying  and  staking  off  these  graded 
ditches,  and  many  times  have  I  seen  him  with  his  eldest 
daughter,  Miss  Anna  Mariah,  walking  together  through  the 
fields  and  meadows  of  Fort  Hill. 

Mr.  Calhoun  was  ever  pleased  to  receive  and  entertain  his 
neighbor  farmers  and  discuss  with  them  the  agricultural  inter 
ests  of  the  country,  and  it  made  no  difference  whether  they 
wore  broad  cloth  or  homespun  geans,  all  received  the  same 
kindness  and  attention.  His  most  earnest  friends  were  his 
nearest  neighbors,  and  those  who  were  best  acquainted  with 
his  spotless  character.  No  state  ever  held  more  confidence  in 
her  representative  than  did  South  Carolina  in  Mr.  Calhoun,  nor 
did  the  South  ever  have  a  better  and  truer  friend  ;  he  seemed 
to  possess,  to  an  eminent  degree,  all  of  the  elements  that 
belong  to  true  human  greatness  ;  though  brilliant  and  pro 
found  beyond  other  men  of  his  day,  he  was  simple  and  unpre 
tentious  in  manner,  affable  and  conservative,  yet  as  firm  as  the 
rocks  of  Gibraltar  in  his  convictions  ;  possessed  of  a  Christian 
spirit,  without  a  shade  of  fanaticism,  fully  temperate,  though 
not  a  total  abstinent,  gentle  and  kind  in  disposition,  but  with 
the  heart  of  a  lion  when  aroused  by  acts  of  aggression  and 
injustice  ;  as  to  the  depth  of  his  great  mind  there  seemed  no 
bottom  and  his  foresight  of  coming  events  is  still  the  subject 
of  remark  and  wonder  to  the  present  day. 

John  Caldwell  Calhoun  was  born  in  Abbeville  District, 
South  Carolina,  in  March,  1792;  his  family  were  Irish  on  both 
sides.  His  father,  Patrick,  was  born  in  Donnegal,  ^reland,  and 
landed  with  his  parents  in  Pennsylvania  when  but  a  child.  The 


66  THIS    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  J 

family  then  moved  to  Virginia  and  from  there  to  South  Caro 
lina,  in  1776,  where  John,  the  Jast  but  one,  was  borne,  and 
grew  up  on  a  farm;  aspiring  to  an  education  he  was  sent  over 
to  Georgia  to  his  uncle,  Dr.  Waddle,  then  a  famous  teacher  and 
Presbyterian  minister,  and  making  such  promising  progress  was 
next  sent  to  Yale  College,  where  he  graduated  with  great  distinc 
tion,  and  where,  by  invitation  from  Dr.  D  wight,  the  president  of 
the  college,  engaged  with  that  celebrated  scholar  in  a  political 
discussion  (they  entertaining  opposite  views)  which  elicited  from 
the  doctor  the  remark:  "That  young  man  has  talent  enough  to 
be  President  of  the  United  States;"  and  the  doctor  predicted 
someday,  that  he  would  be,  if  he  lived.  From  Yale  he  went  to 
Litchfield,  Conn.,  and  attended  the  celebrate  law  school  under 
Judge  Reeves ;  returning  to  South  Carolina  he  spent  some 
time  in  the  law  office  of  Mr.  Dessaussure,  in  Charleston,  and 
also  in  Abbeville,  S.  C.,  with  Col.  Geo.  Bowie.  He  served 
two  sessions  in  the  South  Carolina  Legislature  and  then  was 
elected  to  Congress,  and  then  to  the  United  States  Senate, 
and  was  afterwards  Secretary  of  War,  Vice-President  with 
Andrew  Jackson,  and  died  as  Senator  from  his  old  State,  South 
Carolina. 

Mr.  Calhoun  married  his  cousin,  Floride  Calhoun,  of  Abbe 
ville,  S.  C.,  and  settled  permanently  near  old  Pendleton,  at 
Fort  Hill.  He  raised  seven  children,  Andrew  P.,  Anna 
Mariah,  Patrick,  John  C.,  James  E.,  Cornelia  and  William 
Lowndes.  Not  one  of  the  family  are  living,  the  two  eldest 
being  the  last  to  die. 

The  eldest  married  a  daughter  of  Gen.  Duff  Green,  a  man 
of  great  distinction  in  his  day,  and  although  Andrew  P.  was 
educated  for  and  would  have  preferred  a  political  life,  was 
compelled  to  abandon  the  idea  on  account  of  his  own  and  his 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANClil).  (>9 

fathers  agricultural  interests  in  Alabama,  thus  became  a 
planter,  and  a  successful  one.  After  the  death  of  his  father 
he  returned  to  the  old  home  at  Fort  Hill,  where  his  younger 
children  were  born.  Anna  Mariah,  the  next,  married  Mr. 
Thomas  G.  Clemson,  a  foreigner,  and  who  was  afterward  made 
Minister  to  Belgium  and  Cuba,  from  this  Government.  He 
and  his  wife  both  died  at  Fort  Hill,  since  the  war.  Patrick 
was  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  and  died  a  United  States  officer, 
before  the  war.  John  C.  chose  the  medical  profession  and 
graduated,  but  never  practiced  ;  he  married  twice  and  left 
several  children.  James  E  ,  perhaps  the  brightest  mind  of  the 
family,  settled  in  San  Francisco,  Cal.,  started  out  with  brilliant 
prospects,  but  died  quite  young.  Miss  Cornelia  was  injured 
by  a  fall  in  her  infancy  and  never  married  ;  she  was  also  very 
bright,  and  assisted  her  father  as  his  amanuensis.  William 
Lowndes,  the  youngest  of  all  the  children,  was  my  class-mate 
and  best  friend,  married  a  Miss  Cloud,  of  Winnesborro,  S.  C., 
and  died  early. 

Mrs.  John  C.  Calhotin  was  famous  for  her  hospitalities  and 
her  varied  domestic  accomplishments];  superintended,  in  per 
son,  her  extensive  household  affairs;  her  home  was  ever  full  of 
visitors;  she  was  the  very  perfection  in  housekeeping,  and 
after  the  war  her  old  house  servants  were  in  great  demand  ; 
she  was  the  most  loving  and  indulgent  of  mothers,  was  very 
fond  of  building,  and  constantly  kept  carpenters  in  her 
employ,  adding,  changing  and  remodeling  'till  the  old  Fort 
Hill  mansion  became  a  model  for  its  conveniences. 

Mrs.  Andrew  P.  Calhoun  is  still  living,  and  she  and  her  only 
daughter  reside  with  her  son  Pat,  in  North  Atlanta.  The 
family,  like  many  other  wealthy  Southerners,  were  bereft  of 
their  fortune  during  the  Confederate  war,  but  through  the 


70  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

phenomenal  success  of  her  sons,  John  and  Pat,  they  are  in 
affluence  again.  It  is  but  a  decade  since  these  two  enterpris 
ing  young  men  were  struggling  for  a  support,  and  now  have 
not  only  acquired  fortunes,  but  have  developed  into  great 
railroad  factors,  and  have  had  much  to  do  with  the  present 
prospective  great  development  of  the  South.  It  is  an  unde 
niable  fact  that  the  R.  &  D.  R.  R.  is  largely  indebted  to  the 
brain  of  young  Pat  Calhoun  for  its  vast  proportions.  He  is 
now  a  director  and  general  attorney  for  this  powerful  syndi 
cate,  and  John  is  also  a  director  and  is  president  of  the  South 
ern  Society  in  the  city  of  New  York.  Mrs.  Calhoun  has 
reason  to  feel  proud  of  her  children,  and  they  are  descended 
from  distinguished  ancestry  on  both  sides.  We  doubt  if  there 
is  a  young  man  on  this  continent,  to-day,  who  has  accomplished 
through  the  means  of  his  own  brain,  more  than  Pat  Calhoun  ; 
but  little  past  thirty  years  of  age,  he  has  climbed  within  the 
past  eight  years  from  absolute  poverty  to  the  top  of  one  of  the 
greatest  money  powers  in  the  land, -wields  an  influence  and 
handles  fortunes  in  a  manner  that  savours  of  the  old  stories  we 
read  in  the  Arabian  Knights.  I  feel  I  cannot  close  this  refer 
ence  to  the  family  of  Mr.  Andrew  P.  Calhoun,  without  a  word 
about  Mids  Margie,  the  only  daughter,  and  do  so  without  per 
mission,  and  take  the  liberty,  because  I  believe  the  name  of 
John  C.  Calhoun  and  his  discendants  belong  to  the  Southern 
public  Though  Miss  Margie's  efforts  have  been  confined  to 
a  more  secluded  field  of  action,  she  has  proven  herself  no 
idler;  she  seems  to  have  inherited  her  grandfathers  taste  for 
agriculture  and  fine  stock,  and  in  the  management  of  her  val 
uable  stock  farm  near  Atlanta  she  has  exhibited  a  successful 
and  practical  business  management  that  challenges  competi 
tion  with  the  best  farmers  of  the  day.  Her  management  has 


Oil,    TUB    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  71 

been  a  success,  as  her  green  meadows  and  beautiful  Jerseys 
and  Ayershires  will  attest.  She  ignores  cotton  altogether,  and 
confines  her  efforts  entirely  to  forage  crops,  delights  in  fine 
stock,  and  sits  on  her  horse  as  securely  and  handles  the  lines 
behind  her  spirited  bays  with  the  confidence  of  an  expert. 
In  many  ways  she  reminds  me  of  her  grandfather,  not  alone 
in  her  predelections  to  agriculture  and  fine  stock,  but  in  the 
unassuming  simplicity  of  her  manner,  and  her  disposition  and 
capacity  to  entertain  and  interest  others. 

In  the  dark  days  of  the  Confederacy,  and  after  the  war, 
during  the  years  of  poverty  of  the  widowed  mother,  this 
daughter  became  the  great  comfort  to  the  mother  and  the  sole 
instructress  to  her  younger  brothers,  and  besides  her  teaching, 
Pat  went  but  a  short  time  to  Prof.  Cooledge,  at  the  Dalton 
Academy,  and  to  the  devotion  and  inspiration  from  this  noble 
sister  he  is,  no  doubt,  indebted  in  a  large  measure  for  his  extra 
ordinary  success  in  life.  Miss  Margie  seems  to  have  no  aspi 
rations  for  herself;  her  whole  ambition  in  life  is  concentrated 
in  the  interests  of  her  brothers ;  she  prefers  the  most  simple 
and  retired  life  and  is  chief  and  major  domoress  of  the  entire 
home  department. 

I  love  to  think  and  talk  about  the  John  C.  Calhoun 
family,  they  were  our  nearest  neighbors  and  best  fiiends;  the 
Calhoun  boys  were  my  school  mates  for  years,  and  they  were 
my  associates  all  through  the  days  of  my  youth — we  rode  to 
school  together  to  old  Pendleton,  hunted  together  in  our  holi- 
lidays  and  the  youngest  son,  William  Lowndes,  was  my  bosom 
friend ;  his  mother  used  to  call  us  her  "  Damon  and  Pythias." 
The  first  enterprise  I  ever  attempted,  he  was  my  partner.  I 
have  outlived  them  all,  and  shall  ever  cherish  in  the  greenest 
spot  in  my  heart  every  member  of  that  noble  family. 


72  THE    FOG«Y    DAYS    AXD    NOW; 

I  have  often  conversed  with  Mr.  John  C.  Calhoun,  for  he 
was  fond  of  talking  with  boys,  and  would  adapt  his  conversa 
tion  to  entertain  and  instruct  them.  He  'once  said  to  me, 
"You  boys  go  out  hunting  with  your  double-barrel  guns, 
powder  flasks  and  shot  pouches  filled  with  amunition,  and  not 
even  the  little  larks  and  bullbats  escaped  your  attention,  you 
waste  your  amunition  and  bring  home  trifling  game  in  your 
bird  bags;  said  it  was  not  so  in  his  youth,  that  then  he 
shot  a  rifle,  and  never  fired  at  anything  less  than  a  squirrel  or  a 
turkey,  and  that  it  was  a  rare  thing  for  him  to  miss  a  shot ; 
that  amunition  was  expensive  and  had  to  be  economized.  I 
still  have  in  my  possession  his  life  and  speeches,  presented  me 
by  his  own  hand.  He  also  gave  me  a  list  of  histories  for  my 
early  readings,  which  I  purchased  and  kept  up  to  the  late  war, 
and  lout  during  the  confusion  of  that  terrible  time,  together 
with  everything  else  I  owned.  Mr.  Calhoun  told  me  that  his 
favorite  reading  in  his  youth  was  such  books  as  Josephus 
Rollins,  Ancient  History  and  Plutarchs  lives,  and  especially 
the  last,  he  was  very  fond  of;  said  we  boys  were  too  fond  of 
trashy  novels,  that  he  never  read  them.  I  remember  once 
discussing  with  Mr.  Calhoun  the  phenomena  of  rains,  his 
unassuming  manner  throwning  me  off  my  guard,  when  I 
launched  off  into  quite  a  theory  of  my  own.  Ho  listened 
deferentially  to  what  I  had  to  say,  and  then  gave  me  modestly 
his  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  I  was  so  struck  by  his  able 
logic  that  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  listening  to 
the  greatest  mind  of  the  day.  How  ridiculous  my  shallow 
ideas  must  have  appeared  to  him,  and  during  the  balance  of 
the  conversation  felt  constrained  to  say  little  more  than  yes  sir, 
and  no  sir,  and  felt  much  embarrassed,  which  I  know  he  dis 
covered  and  tried  to  relieve. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  78 

Traveling  through  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains  in  North 
Carolina,  Mr.  Calhoun,  Col.  Gadsden  and  my  father  stopped 
over  night  at  a  mountain  cabin  home.  There  was  but  one 
spare  room,  and  in  it  a  bed  and  a  pallet.  My  father  arranged 
for  himself  and  Col.  Gadsden  to  take  the  pallet  and  Mr.  Cal 
houn  to  take  the  bed.  About  midnight  the  mail-rider  stopped 
in,  and  seeing  but  one  person  in  the  bed,  said:  "Git  furder 
thar,  old  horse,  and  spoon,"  and  familiarly  piled  in  with  the 
Senator.  In  the  morning  the  hostess  came  in  the  room  and 
finding  Mr.  Calhoun  there  alone  requested  him  to  climb  up  a 
ladder  into  the  loft,  and  hand  her  down  a  shoulder  of  bacon, 
which  the  Senator  complied  with,  as  gracefully  as  circum 
stances  would  permit. 

Our  party  spent  several  days  on  this  trip  in  Cashier's  Valley 
at  the  home  of  the  old  man,  James  McKinney.  Mrs.  McKin- 
ney  was  quite  a  stout,  red-faced,  middle-aged  lady,  celebrated 
far  and  wide  for  her  curiosity  as  well  as  her  loquacity,  as  also 
her  unsophisticated  manner ;  entering  the  room  where  the 
gentlemen  were  talking,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  above  her 
elbows,  her  arms  akimbo,  addressing  my  father,  with  whom 
she  was  acquainted,  said:  "Colonel  Sloan,  is  this  the  great 
John  C.  Cal-lioun  that  I  have  hearn  so  much  talk  about?"  My 
fa.ther  answered  in  the  affirmative,  saying :  "  Mr.  Calhoun, 
allow  me  to  present  to  you  our  hostess,  Mrs  McKinney." 
Mrs.  McKinney  grasped  the  proffered  hand, saying:  "Do  tell; 
why,  you  look  jist  like  other  folks.  I  reckon  you've  got  a 
mighty  purty  wife  to  home  haint  ye  ?  "  Mr.  Calhoun  answered, 
that  he  intended  bringing  Mrs.  Calhoun  on  a  visit  to  the  mount 
ains,  and  she  would  have  an  opportunity  to  judge  for  herself, 
when  Mrs.  McKinney  broke  in  again, "  Well,  I  low  she's  got  lots 
of  purty  bed  quilts  down  thar,"  when  old  man  McKinney  spoke 


74  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    !NOW  ; 

out,  "Thar  now,  Sally,  you've  played  h— 1  agin,"  and  for  one 
time  in  his  life  our  great  Statesman  seemed  at  a  loss  for  a 
reply.  Mr.  Calhoun  made  frequent  visits  to  these  mountains 
with  my  father,  examining  the  topography  of  the  country  in 
view  of  a  railroad  crossing  the  Blue  Ridge,  and  could  often 
be  seen  cracking  rocks  in  search  of  minerals.  He  was  first  to 
discover  the  indications  of  gold  in  that  section,  and  afterward, 
my  father  and  others,  worked  extensive  gold  mines  there. 

Mr.  Calhoun  was  noted  for  his  wonderful  forecast  of  coming 
events.  Many  are  still  living  who  remember  his  predictions 
about  Marthasville,  now  Atlanta,  the  coming  city  of  the  South. 
Nearly  fifty  years  ago  he  said  it  would  become  a  great 
railroad  distributing  point  and  a  great  city.  He  greatly 
desired  about  that  time  a  railroad  connection  between  Charles 
ton,  S.  C.,  and  Knoxville,  Tenn.,  which  enterprise  was  finally 
undertaken  before  the  war,  and  after  an  expenditure  of  sev 
eral  millions  of  dollars,  under  bad  management,  was  abandoned 
for  want  of  further  means,  the  failure  proving  a  great  misfor 
tune  to  South  Carolina. 

As  a  boy,  I  have  often  heard  Mr.  Calhoun  discuss  with  my 
father  the  great  approaching  crash  between  the  North  and 
South,  and  its  certain  fearful  results.  He  would  show  the 
continual  encroachments  of  the  Abolitionists  upon  the  con 
stitutional  rights  of  the  South,  and  pictured  the  troubles  that 
would  be  unavoidable.  He  feared  that  our  people  did  not 
fully  appreciate  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  I  have  often 
heard  him  say  it  must  come  if  these  aggressions  contimied, 
and  from  his  intimate  knowledge  of  our  opponents  and  their 
unrelenting  and  selfish  character,  he  feared  the  worst. 

My  father  was  devoted  to  Mr.  Calhoun,  and  when  he  died 
was  in  the  deepest  grief  and  gloom,  for  he  felt  that  the  greatest, 


OR,    THK    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  75 

the  wisest,  the  purest  of  all,  was  lost  to  his  country  ;  and  I 
cannot  help  but  believe  that  could  he  have  lived  untill  our 
trouble,  we  would  have  come  out  of  it  better  than  we  did. 

I  remember  once  that  as  father  and  I  were  riding  over  to 
Pendleton,  passing  the  Fort  Hill  big  gate,  we  discovered  Mr. 
Calhoun  and  his  negroes  fighting  fire  in  the  woods.  We  got 
out  of  our  buggy  and  assisted  in  putting  out  the  fire  and  sav 
ing  the  fencing. 

When  the  Senator  would  return  from  Washington,  my 
father  and  other  neighbors  would  visit  him  frequently,  being 
received  at  his  library,  a  cosy  little  house  out  in  the  yard  under 
the  shade  of  several  venerable  oaks,  where  they  would  discuss 
the  state  of  the  country,  agricultural,  and  other  topics  of  the 
day. 

I  once  encountered  a  most  embarrassing  position  at  the  Fort 
Hill  dinner  table  ;  had  been  out  hunting  with  the  boys  and 
returned  to  dine  with  them.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Calhoun  were 
seated  at  either  end  of  the  long  dining  table  and  I  was  placed 
right  between  two  very  elegantly  dressed  young  ladies  (sup 
pose  everybody  has  some  peculiar  weakness,  and  somehow, 
elegantly  dressed  young  ladies,  with  long  trains,  always  had  a 
paralyzing  effect  upon  my  mental  system),  my  embarrass 
ment  increasing  with  the  closer  contact.  I  was  feeling  exceed 
ingly  awkward  and  cramped  on  this  occasion,  when  to  increase 
my  discomfiture,  my  friend,  Willie  Calhoun,  requested  me  to 
carve  a  roast  duck  just  in  my  front.  I  picked  up  the  carver 
and  fork  and  made  an  awkward  lunge  at  the  fowl,  when  it 
skipped  clean  out  of  the  dish,  landing  plump  into  Miss  Martha 
Calhoun's  lap.  It  was  an  awful  affair,  and  my  first  impulse 
was  to  fly,  but  I  dared  not  attempt  it,  for  those  long,  mysterious 
silken  trains  were  coiled  all  around  about  my  feet,  and  I  feared 


7(5  TIIK    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

if  I  made  a  dash  I  might  become  entangled  in  these  stylish 
appendages  and  upset  the  young  ladies  or  something  else,  and 
the  only  resort  I  could  think  of  was  like  old  Adam,  to  try  and 
put  the  trouble  off  on  some  one  else,  so  turning  to  the  sufferer 
I  said:  "Miss  Martha,  I  am  very  sorry,  this  thing  would  never 
have  happened  if  it  hadn't  have  been  a  wild  duck."  This  excuse 
brought  down  the  house  with  a  roar  of  laughter,  .and  even  the 
stately  Senator  smiled  and  remarked  that  the  young  man 
should  be  pardoned  at  once,  and  the  pardon  was  at  once  gra 
ciously  granted,  and  instead  of  the  miserable  culprit,  1  at  once 
became  the  hero  of  the  occasion. 

I  now  want  to  tell  you  a  story.  It  may  at  first  appear  a 
little  marvelous,  but  I  have  earnestly  tried  to  give  the  truth  all 
through  this  little  book,  and  as  I  am  now  a  white  haired  man, 
am  persuaded  that  I  have  borne  a  respectable  name  for 
veracity,  and  would  therefore  regret,  at  this  late  date,  to  be  con 
sidered  a  competitor  of  the  Baron  Mon  Chaussen.  I  trust  the 
reader  will  at  least  be  kind  enough  to  give  the  statement  the 
benefit  of  what  the  law  recognizes  as  '  reasonable  doubts." 
The  strange  story  is  about  a  remarkable  and  very  deep  old 
well  on  the  top  of  old  Fort  Hill,  on  the  John  Calhoun  place. 

It  is  said  that,  in  olden  times,  several  battles  were  fought 
around  this  old  fort,  and  reported  that  many  human  bodies 
were  thrown  into  the  old  well.  It  has  never  been  used  since- 
In  our  day,  there  was  much  superstition  about  this  old  well, 
especially  among  the  negroes,  who  gave  the  place  a  wide 
berth  after  nightfall,  but  as  to  the  facts  of  which  we  are 
about  to  state,  I,  and  others  now  living,  were  personal 
witnesses. 

In  that  day,  if  a  person  would  go  to  this  old  well  after  sun 
set,  and  leaning  over  so  as  to  throw  the  voice  down  to  the  bot- 


OH,    TIIK    WOULD    HAS    CHANCJICD.  77 

torn  of  the  well  and  would  halloo,  "what  are  you  doing  down 
there?"  It  would  answer  back,  "n-o-t-h-i-n-g  a-t  a-1-1."  As  to 
the  whys  and  wherefores,  we  decline  even  to  express  an  opinion, 
but  leave  our  incredulous  readers  to  form  their  own  conclu 
sions  ;  we  can  only  avow  again  that  we  have  in  no  wise  mis 
represented  the  facts. 

Mr.  John  Ewing  Calhoun,  a  brother  of  Mrs.  John  C.  Cal- 
houn,  married  the  sister  of  the  distinguished  South  Carolina 
Congressman,  Warren  It.  Davis,  and  owned  and  lived  on  a 
splendid  estate  of  lands  adjoining  Fort  Hill  ;  had  also  many 
slaves,  and  was  considered  a  very  rich  man  in  that  day.  It 
was  his  son,  Col.  Ransom  Calhoun,  who  was  killed  in  a  duel 
by  Lieutenant  Rhett,  on  an  island  near  Charleston,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  war.  His  only  daughter,  Miss  Martha,  familliarly 
called  Goody,  was  one  of  the  most  splendid  young  ladies  of 
that  day,  with  a  cultivated  intellect,  a  gifted  conversationalist, 
an  accomplished  musician  and  the  author  of  the  "  Keowee 
Waltzes,''  and  besides  an  equestrian  of  extraordinary  skill.  I 
once  saw  her  mount  a  young  blooded  horse  of  her  fathers" 
that  two  negroes  with  difficulty  held  whilst  she  was  being 
seated,  and  when  turned  loose,  skilfully  managed  him.  She 
died  early — never  married. 

Mrs.  Calhoun  had  another  brother,  Mr.  James  Edward 
Calhoun,  a  very  wealthy  man,  and  one  of  many  eccentricities, 
who  lived  on  the  Savannah  River,  in  Abbeville  Dist.,  S.  C., 
and  who  died  but  recently  at  a  very  advanced  age.  He  left 
no  children. 

One  of  her  Sisters  was  the  wife  of  Gov.  Noble,  of  South 
Carolina.  The  Calhouns,  of  Atlanta,  are  also  of  the  Abbe 
ville,  South  Carolina,  Calhoun  family.  We  refer  to  the  great 
oculist,  Dr.  Abner  Calhoun,  and  Judge  William  Lowndes  Cal- 


yg  THK    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

houn,  who  has  tilled  so  many  honorable  and  useful  offices  in 
this  City;  the  brilliant  lawyer  called  "Andy"  Calhoun,  and 
other  members  of  these  families. 

Circumstances  have  connected  a  name  with  the  John  C 
Calhoun  family  that  savors  much  of  romance,  that  of  James  H. 
Rion,  late  of  Winsboro,  S.  C.,  who  died  a  learned  scholar  and 
distinguished  lawyer.  Of  all  persons  now  living,  I  am,  perhaps, 
the  only  one  that  can  give  a  correct  account  of  his  connection 
with  the  Calhoun  family,  who  had  much  to  do  with  the  shaping 
of  the  remarkable  events  of  bis  after  life. 

How  well  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  Jim  Rion, 
sitting  alone  on  the  root  of  a  great  oak  in  front  of  the  old 
Pendleton  Academy,  with  a  yellow  ribbon  band  around 
his  plain  straw  hat.  I  was  struck  with  the  peculiar  whiteness 
of  his  skin,  his  delicate  and  girl-like  appearance.  I  spoke  to 
the  boy  and  learned  from  him  that  he  and  his  mother  were 
Irish  Canadians,  but  recently  from  Savannah,  Ga.  His  mother 
had  come  to  keep  house  at  the  Old  Pendleton  Hotel.  He 
wanted  to  witness  the  examination  then  going  on,  but  was  too 
timid  to  venture  in  alone.  I  conducted  the  stranger  boy  in 
and  shared  with  him  my  seat. 

Soon  after  this  he  entered  school,  becoming  my  classmate 
and  we  afterward  became  devoted  friends,  he  spending  his  Sat 
urdays  and  vacations  with  me  at  my  fathers  beautiful  home, 
Tranquilla,  on  the  Seneca  River,  and  in  the  Blue  Ridge  Mount 
ains,  hunting. 

I  rode  to  school  at  Pendleton,  joining  the  Calhoun 
boys  at  the  big  gate.  One  morning,  calling  at  the  mansion' 
Mrs.  Calhoun  mentioned  to  me  that  she  wanted  a  good  house 
keeper,  when  I  told  her  of  Mrs.  Rion,  whose  cakes  and  pies  I 
had  so  often  enjoyed,  and  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  Calhoun  I 


OK,    TUB    WORM)    HAS    CIIANGKI>.  79 

went  to  see  Mrs.  Rion  and  obtained  her  consent  to  go  to  Fort 
Hill,  and  then  Jim  formed  a  part  of  our  cavalcade  to  the 
Pendleton  Academy.  Our  party  consisted  of  Mr.  Calhoun's 
three  sons,  John  C.,  James  E.,  William  Lowndes  and  Jim  Rion, 
from  Fort  Hill,  Ransome  Calhoun,  from  Keowee,  and  my  Uncle 
John  Ilnckett  and  myself  from  Tranquilla. 

Jim  Rion  received  every  kindness  from  the  Calhoun  family, 
and  it  is  believed,  to  this  day,  even  in  South  Carolina,  that  he 
was  of  blood  relation  to  the  Calhouns,  but  it  is  not  true.  Jim 
Rion  was  fifteen  years  old  when  he  came  to  Pendleton,  and 
sixteen  when  he  went  to  Fort  Hill. 

My  father  first  noted  his  brilliancy  of  intellect  and  spoke  of 
it  to  Mr.  Calhoun,  and  through  his  influence,  and  the  efforts 
of  Young  James  E.  Calhoun,  who  was  then  in  college,  he  was 
entered  as  a  beneficiary  and  graduated  with  great  distinction, 
winning  the  first  honors  of  his  class,  though  some  of  his  com 
petitors  belonged  to  the  wealthiest  and  most  aristocratic  fam 
ilies  of  the  State.  He  also  captured  a  more  precious  prize 
from  the  family  of  the  President  of  the  College,  then  the  Hon. 
W.  C.  Preston. 

Rion  commenced  business  as  a  teacher  in  Winsboro,  S.  C., 
studied  law  under  the  famous  Mr.  Woodward,  and  soon 
became  his  partner  in  the  practice.  The  war  coming  on,  he 
was  among  the  first  to  volunteer,  came  out  as  a  colonel  of  a 
regiment,  and  was  known  as  a  brave  and  brilliant  officer 
After  the  war  he  rose  rapidly  in  his  profession  and  became 
famous  as  a  railroad  lawyer,  which  branch  he  made  a  specialty. 
He  refused  to  enter  politics  and  to  accept  any  kind  of  political 
preferment.  He  presented  two  scholarships  to  his  alma  mater, 
in  gratitude  for  benefits  received.  Mr.  Calhoun  entertained  a 
very  high  opinion  for  j£mes  Rion,  and  in  many  ways  showed 


80  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

his  confidence  in  his  talent  and  integrity,  and  after  Mr.  Cal- 
houn's  death,  Rion  found  opportunity,  and  did  render  valuable 
service  to  members  of  his  family.  James  Rion  was  a  remark 
able  man,  and  his  death  was  not  only  an  irreparable  loss  to  his 
family,  but  to  his  adopted  State. 


OK,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  81 


THIS  DAY  OF  PROGRESSION. 


TfiE  world  moves  on,  it  does  progress, 
Rests  not,  rushing  on,  on  it  goes; 
Where,  or  whitherward   it  may  be  bound, 
Is  veiled — God  himself  only  knows. 

We  may  look  back  for  fifty  years, 
And  our  records  tell  of  many  more ; 

New  petals  bud  and  then  unfold, 

And  each  one  gives  a  greed  for  more. 

To-day  every  man's  for  himself, 

Hindmost  left  to  the  devils  care; 
The  tickling  game,  the  winning  card, 

Man  must  tickle,  to  get  his  share- 
Friendship  is  but  an  empty  sound, 

And  gratitude  a  giddy  farce ; 
Going  up  we  meet  many  a  friend, 

But  coming  down  we  find  them  scarce. 

Who  to-day  is  our  dear  neighbor, 
On  whom  are  your  praises  lavished  ; 

They  who  sit  on  the  topmost  rails, 
Favors  wanted  there  are  ravished. 

Boot  licking  full  in  fashion  now, 

A  science  made  of  flattery  ; 
Success,  hard  won  without  deceit, 

The  tickling  force  the  battery. 


82  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

Vile  rings  are  formed  to  consumate, 
And  foulest  schemes  are  designed  ; 

Oft  worse  men  are  placed  in  power, 
To  swindle  the  weak  are  combined. 

This  day  an  humble,  honest  man, 
Is  trodden  under  out  of  style ; 

Is  tho't  a  man  of  no  git  up, 
Voted  out  of  rank,  rank  and  file. 

'Twas  in  this  progress  we  fell  short, 
Sought  for  the  truth,  even  prized  it ; 

Had  no  more  sense  than  pay  our  debts, 
Condemned  trickery,  despised  it. 

Wore  woolen  jeans,  home  tanned  boots, 
Had  shirts  hitched  to  our  collars ; 

Our  breeches  had  the  fogy  flap, 
But  pockets  filled  with  dollars. 

Yes,  you  call  us  old-time  fogies, 
Our  old-time  ways  you  have  dropped ; 

New  things,  new  ideas  every  day. 
From  the  fogy  world  you've  flopped. 

If  your  progress  was  most  for  good, 
Good  and  evil  both  run  along, 

Hide  by  side,  do  their  waters  flow, 
But  evil  seems  the  biggest  prong. 

One  flows  on  with  gentle  ripple, 
Other  rushes  with  a  mighty  roar ; 

The  one,  but  laves  its  gentle  banks, 
But  the  other  is  flooding  o'er. 

The  first  progression  known  was  sin, 
First  development  brought  unrest, 

First  advance  was  in  devilment, 
And  proved  to  be  a  bad  invest. 


OK,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  83 

First  couple  were  a  happy  pair, 

Until  they  struck  that  progress  tree, 
A  curse  upon  the  first  invention, 

An  apron  to  hide  naked-i-tee. 

Proof  first  progress  was  not  for  good, 

In  fact,  panned  out  vice- versa, 
First  advance  to  pollute  the  soul. 

Forward  movement,  bad  disburser. 

May  be  all  right,  it  suits  the  folks, 

Who  are  the  makers  of  the  times, 
Progress  is  the  new  order  now, 

And  the  propelling  force,  the  dimes. 

Our  old  time  rig  is  of  ante-date, 

Modern  innovations  now  preside, 
Be  it  for  better  or  for  worse, 

They  are  the  court,  they  must  decide. 

New  modern  fleets  around  us  tack, 

See  gaudy  yachts  go  flying  by, 
Fast  steamers  leave  us  in  their  wake, 

Cant  keep  up,  'taint  no  use  to  try. 

Are  on  the  sail,  must  scud  along, 

Old  bark  must  buffet  with  the  tide, 
Rough  breakers  beat  against  our  prow, 

And  the  great  sea  seems  drear  and  wide. 

Are  on  the  train,  its  schedule  new, 

We  can  but  wait,  and  watch,  and  see  ; 
But  it  seems  it's  running  very  fast, 

Too  fast,  much  too  fast  for  we. 


84  TI1K    FOGY    DAYS    AXD    NOW; 


AN  AGE  OF  MONOPOLY  AND  GREED. 


N  age  of  monopolous  rings, 

Formed  of  sharpers,  bulls  and  bears, 
Of  cunning  trusts  to  rob  the  poor, 
Then  divide  up  their  guilty  shares. 

The  rich  grow  richer  every  day, 
Their  greedy  craws  never  satisfied  ; 

They  grind  the  poor  down  into  the  dust, 
And  e'en  life's  comforts  are  denied. 

While  millions  live  from  hand  to  mouth, 
Are  o'er  burdened  with  the  toils, 

Monopolies'  coffers  are  never  filled, 
Nabobs  are  gloating  in  the  spoils. 

An  age  of  swindles  and  humbugs, 
Honesty  stands  but  little  chance, 

The  big  dog's  got  the  whip  in  hand, 
And  the  little  dog's  got  to  dance. 

Now  these  big  dog's  have  got  to  think 
That  they  are  made  of  porcelain  clay, 

The  under  dog's  of  common  mud, 
That  they  have  lost  all  right  to  say. 

They  look  down  on  poverty  as  shame, 
Though  it  meet  all  its  obligations ; 

A  guilty  shame  that  they  would  shun, 
As  only  fit  for  their  abnegations. 


OH,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  85 

4 

And  distress  of  odious  savor, 

To  some  who  recline  on  roses, 
On  earth  they  turn  up  their  noses, 

Nor  change  till  up  go  their  toe-ses. 

What  a  sight  in  the  judgment  day, 

When  the  Lord  gives  out  his  diplomas, 
When  some  of  these  high-stepping  bucks, 

Will  skulk  away  with  the  gloamers. 

When  earthly  laws  shall  be  reversed, 

By  light  verdicts  of  the  master, 
When  conflicting  judgments  of  men, 

Be  wrecked  in  common  disaster. 

Then  ye  high-headed  ones  of  caste, 

Don't  deign  a  nod  to  your  betters, 
What  will  become  of  your  pewter? 

For  you  must  hand  in  your  letters. 

What  will  you  do  in  the  awful  day? 

When  the  grim  monster  shall  find  you, 
The  old  imp,  with  sulphurous  breath, 

Brings  his  icy  chains  to  bind  you. 

We  would  not  chide  at  all  the  rich, 

For  the  world  must  have  its  pageants, 
For  Heaven  fills  many  a  purse, 

And  makes  good  men  its  agents. 

Grand  the  man  who  is  so  blessed, 

With  worldly  wealth  and  with  a  soul, 
A  heart  to  feel  and  hand  to  help, 

For  he  shall  reach  the  highest  goal. 

The  biggest  fool  that  we  can  ken, 

Though  he  be  a  man  of  learning, 
The  bloated  toad  who  loves  himself, 

His  own  great  traits  alone  discerning. 


THK    FOGY    DAYS    AttD    NOW; 

Sometimes  we  meet  him  on  the  streets, 
Have  marked  his  braggart  swagger, 

Oe'r  the  humble,  he  towereth  high, 
To  such  his  eye  hath  look  of  dagger. 

'Twould  be  hard  if  in  this  poor  world, 
If  recompense  in  this  dark  vale, 

What  entanglements  wright  and  wrong, 
Thank  God  there  is  a  grand  finale. 

What  is  progress,  except  from  sin  ? 

What  worth  the  earth,  its  passing  joys  ? 
A  few  short  years  when  we  look  back, 

These  mighty  things  will  seem  as  toys. 

The  rage  now  is  to  let  'er  roll, 

Roll  on,  rush  on,  regardless  where, 

Let  'er  roll,  we'll  cross  the  stream, 
Though  we  know  the  maelstrome's  near. 

Sometimes  we  gaze  into  God's  expanse, 
Peer  out  into  a  thousand  years, 

Then  look  back  at  the  trifling  past, 
And  smile  at  former  joys  and  fears. 

See  how  we  struggled  there  for  naught, 
Some  worthless  bauble  to  obtain, 

How  many  mistaken  roads  we  took, 
And  how  suffered  there  in  vain. 

Then  we  laugh  at  human  giant  fools, 
Whose  form  once  towered  o'er  the  poor, 

But  pigmies  do  they  now  appear, 
Shivering  dwarfs  outside  the  door. 

We  see  the  once  grand  millionaire, 
Who  had  but  borrowed  deceitful  gold, 

That  swelled  his  purse  a  little  while, 
And  then  found  too  late  he  was  sold. 


OR,    THE    \VOKL1)    HAS    CHANGED. 

Have  some  magnates  now  in  our  mind, 
Who  in  these  great  times  do  dwell, 

Have  lorded  over  God's  little  ones, 
Might  call  their  names,  don't  care  to  tell. 

Sometimes  the  case  that  rulers  be, 
Whose  hearts  are  rotten  to  the  core, 

Clothed  in  power  for  one  brief  day, 
And  who  may  soon  be  worse  than  poor. 


gg  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  J 


THE  TWO  STREAMS. 


BUT  there  are  good  as  well  as  bad, 
E'en  in  this  wild  and  rattling  day, 
Heaven  hath  sentinels  every  age, 
To  point  its  pilgrims  on  their  way. 

Midst  sin  and  shame,  some  humble  ones, 
Unknown,  unselfish,  every  thought, 

Whose  secret  prayers  reach  His  throne, 
Who  have  his  ardent  battles  fought. 

There  is  a  Christian  type  this  day, 
Same  as  was  in  the  days  of  old, 

As  high,  as  true,  and  noble  too, 
That  ever  watches  o'er  his  fold. 

And  these  make  up  that  gentle  stream, 
The  stream  that  laves  its  placid  banks, 

And  but  for  these  the  world  were  lost, 
For  these  let's  give  to  God  our  thanks. 

To  noisy  world  are  often  hid, 
Unpublished,  all  their  work  is  done, 

In  self-denial  hold  their  creed, 
And  through  faith  is  victory  won. 

Not  always  in  the  pulpit  found, 

Not  ever  in  the  church  would  seek, 
Not  midst  the  gay  and  social  realms, 
But  rather  mongst  the  low  and  meek. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGKI).  89 

The  angels  know  them,  man's  in  doubt, 

May  be  Lazarus  or  Magdalene, 
Such  that  might  be  scorned  of  men, 

Such  might  be  God's  choice  I  ween. 

How  many  wolves  that  wear  lambs  wool, 

Have  gathered  within  the  fold, 
They  may  deceive  his  people  here, 

But  in  his  courts  they  cannot  hold. 

How  often  e'en  within  the  church, 

That  Heaven's  temples  are  profaned, 
Hypocrite  in  a  deacon's  chair, 

Who  for  a  saint  hath  been  ordained. 

How  many,  who  may  feel  secure, 

That  will  pass  through  the  inner  gate? 
Oh  !     How  many  shall  enter  there? 

And  how  many  will  miscalculate? 

Then  I  wonder  what'll  be  my  fate, 

When  I'm  called  to  make  the  change, 
If  I'm  saved  for  what  I've  done, 

Would  think  it  passing  strange. 

If  I'm  lost,  could  but  deem  it  just, 

For  I  know  I've  a  rebel  been ; 
Could  make  no  excuse,  silent  be, 

My  sins  I  would  not  dare  to  screen, 

In  soul  I  know  I  love  the  Lord, 

But  in  the  flesh  I'm  very  weak, 
Sometimes  I  feel  a  would-be  saint, 

Then  comes  again  a  devlish  streak. 

Now  some  may  think  all  this  is  weak, 
And  to  all  such  it  may  be  Greek, 
To  me  the  only  solid  plan, 
Only  reasonable  left  to  man. 


90  THE  i^oGY  DAYS  AND 


All  others  fail  of  which  I've  read, 
To  suit  the  living,  fit  the  dead, 
None  like  Christ  on  earth  hath  trod, 
Born  a  man,  I  believe  he's  God. 

I  accept  Him;  in  Him  have  faith, 
His  promise  seal  what  e'er  He  saith. 
Against  His  word  dare  not  reason, 
Simple,  sacriligious  treason. 

I  shall  cling  to  his  written  word, 
'Tis  ahead  of  all  I've  ever  heard  ; 
If  some  things  I  can't  understand, 
Still  I'm  subject  to  his  command. 

Believe  in  both  heaven  and  hell, 
Where  right  with  wrong  can  never  dwell, 
Deprived  of  heaven,  all  that's  good, 
Is  essence  of  hell,  its  daily  food. 


OU,    THE    WOKLD    HAS    CHANGED.  1)1 


EARTH'S   THREE    EPOCH'S. 


The  earth  lay  dormant,  a  dismal  mass, 
Its  first  epoch  thus  for  ages  lay, 

Ever  whirling,  turning,  turning, 
For  how  long,  God  alone  can  say. 

Next  a  wriggling  of  created  worms, 
Then  chattering  noises  in  the  air, 

But  in  Eden  sprang  the  master  worm, 
Then  a  wormess  made  the  happy  pair. 

But  too  soon  they  spun  their  first  cocoon, 
With  silken  threads,  their  funeral  shroud, 

Which  their  fair  forms  was  to  entomb, 
Heretofore  had  never  seen  a  cloud. 

Human  destiny  ruined,  one  fell  swoop, 
Thwarted,  blasted  by  a  devil's  trap, 

Banished  hence  from  that  garden's  bliss, 
Forever  by  this  sad,  sad  mishap. 

Henceforth  doomed  to  labor  and  to  plod, 
Earth's  second  epoch,  a  faithless  race, 

Stupid  fogies,  seeking  how  to  find, 
How  to  dodge  the  law,  sweat  of  thy  face. 

And  though  cycles  of  time  have  they  spent, 
Have  striven  and  toiled  to  attain, 

To  save  "  elbow  grease  "  have  been  intent, 
Striven  and  toiled,  and  still  in  vain. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  J 

The  old  cocoon  they  at  last  have  burst, 
On  ;«rial  wings  they  now  seek  to  fly, 

As  butterflies  sail  on  gaudy  wings, 
Flutter  in  the  sunshine,  then  must  die. 

This  century,  fogy  chains  were  loosed, 
And  since  invention  can  scarce  be  told, 

And  to-day  they  sail  on  gaudy  wings, 
They  do  hardly  seem  the  worms  of  old. 

The  old  fogy  worm  was  sleek  and  fat, 
And  he  was  content  his  sphere  to  fill, 

And  these  butterflies  they  flounder  too, 
With  all  their  gaud  are  but  mortal  still. 

They  gambol  midst  sweets  of  every  kind, 
And  reckless,  no  thought  of  coming  storm , 

Forget  the  tempest  is  sure  to  come, 
Beneath  flower  lies  the  prostrate  form. 

And  such  is  life,  then  what  doth  it  wot, 
In  this  brief  life  whether  crawl  or  fly  ? 

How  short  at  best  our  troubled  days, 
For  in  the  midst  of  life  then  must  die. 

And  the  spark  of  life  is  all  the  same, 
Let  outside  be  worm  or  butterfly, 

This  vital  spark  is  all  that's  worth, 
The  only  part  that  can  never  die. 

The  vital  spark  alone  can  stand, 
For  all  else  is  nill,  good  for  naught, 

The  God-given  spark  to  every  man, 

Only  spark  of  earth  from  heaven  caught. 

Then  what  matter  whether  we  crawl  or  fly  ? 

What  matter  whether  we  sail  or  plod, 
Best  of  all  to  live  an  honest  man, 

To  be  the  best,  the  noblest  work  of  God. 

And  through  all  times  we  now  conclude, 
There  have  lived  upright,  honest  men, 

Not  so  many  as  there  used  to  be, 
But  still  they  do  turn  up  now  and  then. 


OR,    THE    WORLD     MAS    CIIANGKD. 


THE   PEWTER   BUCKLE   MOULDS. 


|NE  bright  morning  my  father  sent  me  up  to  old  man 
Howell's,  with  an  order  for  a  lot  of  shingles.  The  place 
was  about  six  miles  off,  and  I  was  soon  on  my  way,  galloping 
along  the  country  roads.  It  did  not  take  me  long  to  reach  my 
destination  and  learn  that  the  old  man  was  already  out  in  the 
woods,  drawing  shingles  ;  however,  his  son  Mart  was  at  home, 
and  kindly  offered  to  conduct  me  to  his  father,  but  before 
starting,  exhibited  to  me  an  invention  of  his  own,  a  pair  of 
soapstone  buckle  moulds,  also  displaying  a  stock  on  hand  of 
bright,  shining  gallows  buckles.  I  examined  the  machine  with 
undisguised  wonder,  feeling  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
genius,  and  looked  upon  the  inventor  with  profound  admira 
tion.  This  poor  man's  son,  without  opportunities,  with  his 
untutored  hands,  had  wrought  this  valuable  machine.  I 
thought,  what  a  brilliant  future  would  be  his,  what  wealth  and 
fame  would  fall  to  his  lot  in  life;  such  were  my  meditations  as 
I  inspected  the  beautiful  products  of  his  invention,  I  was 
startled  from  my  reveries  by  the  young  man  proposing  to  sell 
the  moulds  to  me.  I  had  not  imagined  he  would  part  with  this 
valuable  property  for  thousands.  I  was  still  more  surprised 
when  he  offered  to  take  the  insignificant  sum  of  $1.50.  I  had 
but  75  cents,  but  he  took  that  rather  than  miss  a  trade,  admitting 
he  had  sold  too  cheap  ;  then  said  there  was  a  soapstone  quarry 
close  by  and  he  could  make  more  moulds ;  that  he  was  short 
of  capital,  and  this  sale  would  enable  him  to  lay  in  another 


94  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

stock  of  pewter  and  go  on  with  the  business.  He  said  the 
world  had  to  be  supplied  with  these  gallas  buckles;  that  there 
\v;is  a  great  future  in  the  business  for  both  of  us;  that  my. 
engaging  in  the  business  would  only  help  to  advertise  it ;  that 
it  would  take  a  number  of  factories  to  supply  the  demand ; 
that  he  was  willing  to  share  both  the  fortune  and  the  fame 
with  me. 

I  purchased  the  factory,  and  was  so  elated  with  my  invest 
ment  that  I  came  very  near  forgetting  the  errand  upon  which 
my  father  sent  me.  It  was  not  long  before  I  was  on  my  return 
home  with  the  valuable  machinery  in  my  breeches  pockets, 
engrossed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  great  enterprise  to  be 
established  in  the  very  near  future.  That  night  I  tossed  rest 
lessly  on  my  pillow  and  couMn't  sleep  for  pondering  upon  my 
great  scheme.  I  organized  many  brilliant  plans  for  the  future 
operation,  but  determined  to  keep  my  counsel,  for  I  had  heard 
it  said  that  a  wise  man  keepeth  his  own  counsel.  In  my  good 
mothers  kitchen  I  knew  there  were  large  numbers  of  pewter 
spoons  and  plates,  all  of  which  I  determined  to  capture  and 
convert  into  valuable  articles  of  trade.  I  matured  many  im 
portant  plans  of  procedure  during  that  short  night. 

Next  morning  I  arose  early  and  made  a  confident  of  black 
Dan,  my  fathers  hostler,  who  had  often  proved  my  faithful 
friend  and  allie  when  I  wanted  a  horse  out  of  the  stable  at 
night  to  ride  fox  hunting.  With  Dan,  I  held  a  protracted  and 
secret  caucus,  and  it  was  agreed  to  go  on  a  'possum  hunt  (to 
all  intents  and  purposes),  so  after  supper  we  tooted  up  the 
dogs  and  sneaked  all  the  pewter  out  of  the  kitchen,  secured 
an  old  bullet  ladel  for  melting  the  metal,  then  repaired  to  a 
deep  hollow  not  far  away,  built  a  fire  and  started  the  factory. 
Everything  worked  like  a  charm,  the  enterprise  was  a  success, 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  05 

and  we  continued  to  mould  gullas  buckles  until  the  first  warn 
ing  notes  of  the  morning  cock  admonished  us  to  desist.  We 
had  near  a  peck  of  the  shining  beauties  on  hand  ;  it  had 
proved  a  glorious  triumph,  and  I  and  Dan  were  happy  ;  we 
congratulated  each  other,  shook  hands  time  and  time  again. 
I  promised  to  make  Dan  a  foreman  in  the  factory,  and,  in  a  few 
years  to  set  him  free,  give  him  eighty  acres  and  two  mules. 

I  now  detei'mined  soon  to  hold  a  conference  with  my  parents, 
and  thought  what  a  surprise  it  would  be  to  them;  and  oh,  how 
happy  it  made  me  feel  to  think  of  their  delight  in  the  discovery 
of  the  enterprise  and  cleverness  of  their  eldest  son.  I  deter 
mined  that  very  day  to  show  up  the  whole  scheme,  together 
with  my  well  digested  plans  for  operation  in  the  business.  I 
intended  to  make  my  worthy  sire  a  principal  partner  in  the 
concern,  and  we  should  either  employ  young  Howell,  or  give 
him  an  interest  in  the  business.  His  department  would  be  to 
make  the  moulds — make  them  on  a  grand  scale.  We  would 
have  double  moulds,  tripple  moulds  and  after  a  while,  an  acre 
of  moulds,  and  great  cauldrons  to  melt  the  pewter.  My  father 
could  make  a  corner  on  all  the  pewter  in  America,  get  an 
option  on  all  the  timber  in  the  neighboring  counties  for  fuel, 
get  up  all  the  labor  possible,  and  when  once  under  full  head 
way,  would  run  the  business  for  all  it  was  worth.  We  would 
become  many  times  millionaires,  would  build  churches,  schools 
and  hospitals,  help  the  poor  and  afflicted,  and  in  my  great 
gratitude  to  a  kind  providence,  I  resolved  that  no  one  within 
my  reach  should  hereafter  suffer  for  want  of  good,  remunera 
tive  labor,  or  the  comforts  of  life,  and  I  did  not  know  but  that 
under  a  favoring  providence  I  might  become  an  humble  agent 
in  the  ushering  in  of  the  great  millennium. 

Early  after  breakfast,  I  took  Dan  and  made  a  visit  to  the 


gg  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

buckle  factory.  I  shall  never  forget  the  joy  I  felt  that 
morning  as  I  surveyed  that  embryo  buckle  factory,  the  pride 
of  that  epoch  in  my  life's  history,  with  what  complacency  and 
self  confidence,  with  what  intensity  of  satisfaction  with  myself 
and  all  the  rest  of  mankind,  as  I  stood  there  with  my  arms 
folded  across  my  peaceful  breast,  contemplating  the  vast 
fortune  that  had  so  benificently  fallen  into  my  lap.  Oh,  could 
I  have  died  right  then  ;  but  alas  for  all  human  hopes,  when  we 
feel  strong  it  is  so  often  but  the  precursor  to  our  own  weak 
ness.  While  thus  wrapt  in  the  glories  and  fulness  of  my 
great  enterprise,  black  Dan  was  hitching  on  a  pair  of  buckles 
to  his  home-made  gallases,  but  the  tongues  to  the  buckles  bent 
and  easily  broke ;  they  wouldn't  hold,  and  a  sharp  exclamation 
from  the  negro  broke  up  my  reveries.  "  Why  !  Marse  Dave,'' 
he  exclaimed,  "dese  buckles,  dey  aint  no  good,  look-a-here." 
I  saw  it,  the  truth  flashed  upon  me  like  a  thunderbolt ;  it  stag 
gered  me.  I  tremblingly  asked,  "what's  that  Dan?"  He 
answered,  "dese  buckles."  It  was  enough,  I  was  stupeiied, 
squelched ;  this  was  a  part  of  the  business  that  had  been  com 
pletely  overlooked ;  ruined,  bursted,  at  one  fell  swoop  a  bank 
rupt.  There  was  only  one  case  of  equal  gravity  that  I  could 
think  of,  and  that  was  when  Lucifer  fell  from  Heaven. 
Instead  of  the  great  millionaire,  as  I  had  calculated,  I  was  a 
pauper  ;  instead  of  one  who  had  achieved  both  fortune  and 
fame,  I  was  now  a  miserable  culprit,  for  I  knew  the  pewter 
plates  and  spoons  had  to  be  accounted  for.  I  turned  from 
Dan,  my  faithful  colleague,  in  gloomy  silence,  spiritless  and 
hopeless,  bearing  my  almost  paralyzed  body  back  to  the 
parental  mansion,  where  I  found  new  troubles  awaiting  me. 
My  mother  had  the  cook  up  to  answer  for  the  missing  utensils. 
I  could  not  allow  the  poor  innocent  woman  to  suffer  for  me ;  I 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  97 

told  my  mother  it  was  I  who  "  cut  the  cherry  tree  with  my  little 
axe."  I  then  laid  open  to  iny  compassionate  and  sympathetic 
mother  the  whulu  story  from  beginning  to  end,  as  best  I  could, 
between  sobs,  and  my  kind  and  considerate  mother  concluded 
I  had  already  been  sufficiently  punished,  and  even  tried  to 
console  me  under  this,  my  great  trial,  but  somehow  the  whole 
affair  leaked  out  and  became  the  talk  for  a  full  week  in  the 
neighborhood.  I  was  greatly  prostrated  for  a  time,  but  finally 
recovered  my  wonted  enthusiastic  disposition. 

Years  after  this  occurrence,  I  visited  Milledgeville,  Ga.; 
went  to  see  the  penitentiary,  and  among  the  convicts  I  discov 
ered  my  gallas-buckle  mould  inventor,  Mart  Howell,  making 
shoes  for  the  State.  My  talented  friend  had  surpiised  me  once 
more,  and  upon  inquiry  he  explained  that  he  had  been  unjustly 
incarcerated  in  that  unhallowed  plaoe;  said  he  was  a  martyr  to 
cruel  circumstantial  evidence ;  that  some  years  ago,  while  in 
attendance  on  a  camp  meeting,  just  for  a  joke,  he  took  a 
fellows  horse  and  rode  a  little  ways  out,  intending  to  bring  it 
right  back,  when  a  crowd  of  rascals  got  after  him  and  accused 
him  of  wanting  to  steal  the  horse,  when  such  a  thought  had 
never  entered  his  head  ;  said  he  was  just  about  to  turn  around 
and  go  back  with  the  fellows  horse  when  they  came  upon  him* 
I  asked  Mart  how  far  he  had  got  with  the  fellows  horse  when 
they  came  upon  him  ?  He  answered,  "But  a  little  ways,  not 
more  than  twelve  or  fifteen  miles ; "  and  such  is  life  ;  our 
inventive  genius  in  the  Georgia  penitentiary,  and  a  would-be 
millionaire  and  philanthropist  keeping  an  Atlanta  boarding- 
house. 

"  I  set  me  up  a  bakers'  shop, 

And  thought  I  was  improving, 
But  a  bakers'  shop  will  never  do, 
So  must  push  along,  keep  moving.  " 


98  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 


MY    FIRST    HORSE    TRADE. 


first  remberance,  I  have  been  impressed  with  the  idea 
that  I  was  a  born  speculator,  and  have  ever  been  in  expec 
tation  of  some  grand  result  from  this  inherent  talent, 
although  my  experiences  in  life  have  turned  out  to  the  con 
trary,  I  am  still  unshaken  in  my  faith,  and  live  in  constant 
expectation  of  something  turning  up.  I  can  only  reconcile 
the  past  contradictions  to  this  (my  pet  theory)  by  the  belief 
that  there  is  but  one  little  obstruction  in  the  way,  and  that  is, 
as  yet,  I  havn't  happened  to  strike  it  right ;  have  not 
struck  the  flood  tide  at  its  proper  stage,  and  though  I  now 
number  past  three  score  years,  still  in  the  vigor  of  manhood, 
I  have  not  dispaired.  I  feel  my'good  time  has  got  to  come,  and 
if  I  fail  to  catch  up  with  it  in  this  world,  which  I  have  now 
concluded  is  most  probable,  then  I  shall  confidently  expect  to 
be  successful  in  the  next  one. 

My  father  owned  and  worked  extensive  gold  mines  in  North 
Carolina,  though  our  home  was  on  the  Seneca  river,  in  South 
Carolina.  He  often  sent  me  to  Dahlonega,  Ga.,  where  a 
United  States  mint  was  located,  to  have  the  gold  dust  coined. 
I  started  out  one  beautiful  spring  morning  with  some  two 
thousand  pennyweights  of  this  precious  stuff  in  my  saddle 
bags,  riding  a  splendid  young  sorrel  mare  named  Francis  ;  my 
father  and  mother  both  stood  out  on  the  portico  and  watched 
me  as  the  beautiful  filly  bore  me  gracefully  from  their  sight. 


OH,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  W 

Proceeding  on  my  journey,  about  noon,  I  overtook  a  small, 
stoop-shouldered,  freckled-faced,  red-haired  man,  about  forty 
years  of  age,  wearing  a  wool  hat,  blue  jeans  coat,  coperas 
breeches  and  home-tanned  shoes,  without  socks.  He  was 
jogging  along  in  a  sort  of  lazy  mixed  walk  and  trot,  on  a  sluggish 
looking  old  sway-back,  clay-bank  mare,  with  flax  main  and 
tail.  Feeling  lonely  I  accommodated  my  gait  to  suit  that  of 
the  stranger,  and  we  soon  became  engaged  in  conversation. 
Several  times  I  noticed  the  man  eyeing  my  handsome  filly,  and 
after  awhile  he  ventured  to  remark:  "That's  a  right  snug 
critter  you've  got  there,  how'd  you  like  to  swap  her?"  Swap 
for  what?"  I  asked,  astonished  at  his  impudence,  "you  don't 
mean  for  that  old  thing  you  are  riding  there  do  you,  why,  I 
wouldn't  have  her  as  a  gift?"  He  mildly  replied  that  he  was 
not  at  all  surprised  at  my  hastily  formed  conclusion;  that  he  took 
no  offence  at  what  I  had  said ;  that  it  would  not  always  do  to 
judge  by  appearances;  that  his  critter  was  calculated  to  deceive 
more  experienced  heads  than  mine  ;  said  some  of  the  most 
famous  horses  in  the  world  were  the  most  unsightly  looking; 
said  his  critter  had  royal  blood  coursing  through  her  veins  ; 
called  my  attention  to  her  pointed  ears,  wide  nostrils,  the  full 
swelling  veins,  the  symetry  of  her  limbs;  said  she  was  now 
with  foal  by  the  celebrated  horse  Steel  (a  horse  that  I  had 
seen,  and  the  most  famous  horse  of  that  day)  and  that  the  colt 
would  bring  five  hundred  dollars  when  it  was  six  months  old. 
I  listened  with  wonder  at  all  this  rig-a-ma-role,  somewhat 
staggered  as  he  talked  on,  but  still  unconvinced ;  after  awhile 
I  ventured  to  make  an  objection  to  the  color  of  the  mare.  He 
quickly  replied  that  he  was  glad  I  spoke  of  that,  as  her  color 
was  one  of  the  best  evidences  of  her  value,  and  asked  me  if  I 
had  not^myself,  observed  that  all  circus  horses  were  selected 


1QO  THIS    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

for  intelligence,  and  that  the  white  and  spotted,  and  especially 
the  clay-banks  for  ring  purposes ;  this  last  claim  for  the  old 
mare  was  a  stunner. 

He  saw  he  had  gained  a  point';  said  he  didn't  want  to  part 
with  the  critter,  not  for  love  nor  money,  and  wouldn't  think  of 
it,  exceptin'  for  the  fact  that  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  the 
Mas-se-sip,  and  owin'  to  his  critters  condition  he  was  afraid  he 
would  hatter  leave  her  somewhar  on  the  road,  and  as  he  had 
taken  a  considerable  liking  to  me,  if  he  was  obleeged  to  give 
her  up,  would  ruther  put  a  good  trade  into  my  hands  than  in 
the  hands  of  a  man  he'd  never  seen  before. 

My  opinions  had  now  undergone  acorn plete  change  in  regard 
to  both  the  little  man  and  the  old  mare.  The  kind  expression  on 
the  little  man's  face  made  him  seem  to  me  now  real  handsome, 
and  the  entire  aspect  of  the  old  mare  had  changed ;  and  although 
at  first  she  had  excited  my  disgust,  and  what  I  considei'ed 
deformities,  were  now  points  to  be  estimated.  This  same 
old,  ungainly  animal,  had  become  the  great  object  of  my 
desires.  I  observed  closely,  and  in  great  admiration,  the  pointed 
ears,  the  wide  nostrils,  the  swelling  veins,  and  magnified  the 
royal  blood  coursing  through  the  intelligent  animals  veins.  At 
last  I  asked  my  new  found  friend  how  he  would  be  willing  to 
trade?  He  answered  reluctantly,  that  it  made  him  sick  to  think 
about  trading  the  critter  off,  but  it  seemed  he  was  obleeged  to 
do  it ;  said  to  come  to  the  real  worth  of  his  critter,  he  couldn't 
expect  to  get  nothing  like  it,  that  there  ought  to  be  a  great 
deal  of  boot  between  the  nags,  and  heaving  a  sigh  from  the 
very  bottom  of  his  heart,  "said,  bein'  as  it  wus  me,  and  it  wus  as 
it  wus,  he'd  take  a  hundred  dollars  to  boot."  Then  I  felt  sad, 
when  I  realized  this  valuable  foal  was  out  of  my  reach,  as  I  had 
only  ten  dollars  my  father  had  given  me  to  defray  my  expenses. 


Oft,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  101 

I  confessed  to  him  I  had  only  this  small  amount  with  me. 
His  sympathetic  nature  seemed  to  have  been  touched  at  my 
candid  statement,  as  we  came  to  where  our  roads  separated 
(mine  to  Jarrett's  bridge  on  the  Tugalo  river,  and  his  to  Pul- 
liam's  ferry),  he  turned  his  benignant  countenance  on  me  and 
said:  "Young  man,  I  see  you  want  my  critter,  and  you  ought 
to  have  her,  I  have  taken  a  liking  to  you,  give  me  the  ten  dol 
lars  and  take  her.  We  both  lit  and  changed  saddles,  shook 
hands,  remounted,  and  parted  to  meet  no  more  on  this 
chequered  earth.  I  got  to  Jarrett's  that  night,  but  thought  it 
prudent  to  get  another  horse  to  make  the  trip  to  Dahlonega, 
and  on  my  return  mounted  the  old  mare  once  more.  After 
a  most  patient  ride,  I  reached  home  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking 
into  a  molten  sea  of  golden  glory,  which  I  construed  into  a 
good  omen,  as  it  indicated  I  had  made  a  golden,  glorious 
trade.  My  father  met  me  at  the  door,  and  in  some  surprise 
asked  me  what  had  become  of  Francis?  I  told  him  I  had  traded 
the  filly  off  !  I  told  him  in  glowing  terms  of  the  good  luck  that 
had  befallen  me,  of  the  splendid  trade  I  had  made.  I  expa 
tiated  to  my  astonished  parent  on  the  pointed  ears,  the  wide 
nostrils,  the  symetrical  limbs,  the  royal  blood,  the  foal,  the 
intelligent  color — caught  my  breath  and  was  about  to  take  a 
new  start — when  my  father  exclaimed  "fiddle  sticks".  I  told 
him  that  I  was  not  at  all  surprised  at  his  hastily  formed  opin 
ion;  that  more  experienced  heads  than  his  had  been  deceived 
by  appearances;  told  him  how  the  stranger  had  taken  a  liking 
tome,  when  my  parent  cried  out,  "the  devil  he  did."  I  was 
about  to  take  a  fresh  start,  when  my  father  shouted  out  at  me 
"  hush ;  "  and  not  exactly  liking  the  cut  of  his  eye,  I  hushed.  He 
called  up  my  old  friend,  black  Dan  (my  former  colleague  in 
the  pewter  buckle  mould  business)  and  ordered  him  to  take 


102  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW; 

that  old  carcass  bitched  out  there,  up  to  old  Jake  Frederick's,  and 
tell  him  he  sent  her  to  him  to  have  and  to  keep  as  a  present 
with  a  right  to  all  her  emoluments,  and  issue  forever ;  then 
turned  on  his  heel  and  left  me  without  another  word. 

I  was  greatly  shocked  at  my  fathers  impatient  and  reckless 
manner,  but  was  not  set  back  in  my  judgment  in  the  least,  feel 
ing  calmly  confident  that  time,  which  rights  all  things,  would 
yet  justify  me  in  this  horse  trade.  Yes,  I  felt  as  confident  of  a 
glorious  victory  over  my  parent,  as  I  afterward  did  in  Charles 
ton  on  the  great  evening  of  secession,  when  I  blew  my  old 
hunting  horn  down  the  streets,  that  it  would  be  but  a  break-  ' 
fast  spell  to  wipe  out  the  yankees. 

I  made  the  trip  every  day  up  to  old  man  Frederick's.  One 
morning  I  met  the  old  man  at  the  bars,  with  a  broad  grin  on 
his  face,  and  I  knew  something  had  happened.  My  heart 
fluttered  with  excitement,  as  I  cried  out,  all  right  Uncle  Jake? 
He  answered,  come  and  see.  I  rushed  forward  with  the  latin 
words  on  my  lips,  "veni,  vidi,  vici,"  and  sure  enough,  there  it 
was':  a  little,  weazelly,  mud-colored,  sway-backed,  crooked- 
shanked,  long-eared  m-u-l-e. 

I  collapsed,  telescoped,  wilted,  and  wept  for  shame.  That 
was  the  straw  that  broke  the  camels  back;  disgraced,  defrauded, 
heart-broken.  This  story  also  got  out  in  the  settlement,  and  to 
the  present  day,  I  have  never  completely  regained  my  former 
self  confidence  in  a  horse  trade. 

"  O,  some  power  the  gift  to  gie  us, 
To  see  ourselves  as  ithers  see  us." 


OR,    THE    WORLD     HAS    CIIANCKD.  103 


MOUNTAIN    SPROUTS   AND    SAND    LAPPERS- 


HT'HE  boys  from  near  the  South  Carolina  coast  used  to  call  us 
up-country  fellows  mountain  sprouts,  and  we  in  turn 
called  them  sand-lappers.  Near  a  little  town  called  Slab 
town,  in  Anderson  District,  off  in  the  woods  was  a  famous 
school  in  the  days  of  our  story,  a  large,  one-room  hewed  log 
house.  This  school  was  taught  by  the  deservedly  celebrated 
John  Leland  Kennedy,  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  the  famous 
teacher,  Dr.  Waddell,  and  upon  whose  shoulders  the  veritable 
mantel  of  the  Doctor  had  fallen.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  also  a 
preacher,  a  Presbyterian  of  the  strictest  sect,  and  the  word 
strict  would  hardly  strike  those  who  knew  him  as  striking 
enough,  on  account  of  his  striking  propensities,  for  he  struck 
all  his  pupils  in  the  most  striking  manner ;  that  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  strike,  and  indeed,  when  it  was  necessary  to  strike, 
he  invariably  struck.  His  reputation  as  a  teacher  was  known 
throughout  the  country,  and  he  had  a  very  large  school,  not  con 
fined  to  mountain  "sprouts"  and  "  sand-lappers,"  but  boys  wei-e 
sent  there  from  other  States,  and  of  all  who  came  to  this  great 
school,  no  boy  ever  got  too  big  for  Mr.  Kennedy  to  strike. 
Consequently,  many  unruly  boys  were  sent  to  this  noted  school, 
which  increased  in  numbers  so  that  the  house  would  not  hold  the 
pupils;  therefore,  we  were  sent  by  classes  out  in  the  grove  to 
study  our  lessons  under  the  shades  of  the  great  oaks.  Mr. 
Kennedy  sat  in  the  door,  where,  with  the  sweep  of  his  keen 
black  eyes,  he  could  command  both  the  house  and  the  grove, 


104  THE    FOGY    DAYS   AND    NOW  : 

and  the  least  disorder  among  the  groupe  would  draw  from  him 
the  sharpest  reprimand.  Among  the  members  of  our  class  was 
a  sand-lapper  from  Charleston,  named  Joe  Hide ;  this  boy  Joe 
became  greatly  attached  to  one  of  the  mountain  sprouts, 
and  would  hang  upon  his  words  as  he  related  his  wonderful 
hunting  yarns,  and  his  hair-breadth  escapes  amid  the  wilds 
of  forest  life.  Joe  would  listen  with  wrapt  attention  and 
admiration  to  these  narrations,  and  no  matter  how  extrave- 
gantly  these  stories  were  manufactured,  would  swallow  down 
every  word  as  gospel  truth.  I  said  the  sand-lapper's  name  was 
Joe  Hide,  the  other  fellow  was  me,  and  Joe  stuck  to  me  like  a 
leach.  I  boarded  at  Dr.  Earle's,  on  one  side  of  the  school,  and 
Joe  at  Dr.  Robinson's,  on  the  other  side,  about  three  miles 
apart.  One  evening  Joe  decided  to  go  home  with  me  and 
spend  the  night ;  my  room-mates  were  Tom  Pickens,  from 
Pendleton,  Sloan  Benson,  from  Anderson  and  John  Evans5 
afterward  M.  C.,  from  Spartanburg. 

Well,  after  supper,  we  got  up  a  little  game  of  cards,  for  fun 
— we  never  gambled.  Joe  didn't  want  to  play,  wanted  to  hear 
some  more  hunting  stories.  I  felt  a  little  annoyed  at  his  per 
sistence,  when  a  devlish  idea  entered  my  head,  and  I  arose 
from  the  table  and  went  to  a  corner  and  loaded  a  pistol  with 
powder,  got  out  an  old  razor  and  laid  them  in  a  convenient 
place,  returned  to  the  table  and  at  the  first  opportunity  gave 
the  boys  the  wink,  remarking  as  I  did  so  that  I  did  not  feel 
exactly  right;  was  afraid  one  of  my  old  spells  was  coming  on 
me.  Joe  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  spells  I  had.  I  eva 
sively  replied  that  sometimes  I  had  sorter  wild  spells,  or  abe- 
ration  of  the  mind  came  over  me,  and  turning  to  the  boys  said, 
boys  if  I  should  have  an  attack  to-night  please  take  care  of 
me,  and  don't  let  me  do  any  harm.  Joe  looked  startled  and  I 


OB,    THE    WORLD     HAS    CHANGED.  105 

continued,  it  distressed  me  greatly  to  know  that  I  had  done 
somo  terrible  things  while  under  the  power  of  this  awful 
affliction,  but  trusted  I  would  not  be  held  responsible  for  it 
hereafter,  and  proposed  to  go  to  bed,  but  Joe  was  not  at  all 
sleepy,  and  said  he  believed  he  would  go  home ;  thought  he 
ought  to  go  home  anyway.  Evans  remarked  it  would  be  very 
unsafe  to  make  the  trip  after  night,  as  two  large  bears  had 
been  seen  in  the  swamp  a  few  days  since.  Pickens  said  he  would 
not  think  of  such  a  thing,  as  the  road  was  doubtless  full  of 
snakes  ;  that  in  this  country  the  snakes  all  crawled  at  night. 
Joe  gave  a  sort  of  uneasy  grunt,  and  asked  if  he  could  get 
another  room.  Benson  answered  impossible,  as  all  the  rooms 
were  occupied,  so  we  all  began  to  undress  to  go  to  bed  ;  he 
got  on  the  edge  of  my  bed,  as  he  was  my  visitor,  and  every  now 
and  then  would  ask  how  I  was  feeling.  The  boys  kept  talking 
to  themselves  in  an  undertone,  but  every  word  was  audible  to 
Joe  Hide. 

One  of  them  said  what  a  pity  he  has  these  spells,  he's  such 
a  clever  fellow  when  he's  at  himself  ;  another  one  said  he's  so 
dangerous,  I'm  scared.  Evans  said,  warn't  that  awful  about 
that  fellow  he  killed  in  Pickens  District  last  year,  and  they 
had  to  choke  him  off  while  he  was  sucking  the  blood.  Benson 
said  the  worst  thing  was  his  killing  that  family  in  Anderson, 
cutting  them  up  in  quarters  and  salting  them  down  in  a  hogs 
head.  Pickens  said  it  seemed  his  whole  desire  was  for  blood 
when  those  spells  came  upon  him;  was  about  to  tell  of  another 
terrible  affair,  when  I  cried  out,  boys  hold  up,  I  don't  want  to 
hear  about  those  terrible  things,  you  know  I  would  not  have 
done  it  if  I  could  help  it,  please  stop  and  let's  go  to  sleep.  I 
could  hear  Joe's  heart  thumping  against  his  ribs,  and  he  was  all 
over  in  a  shake.  I  asked  what's  the  matter  Joe,  got  a  chill  ? 


100  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

He  replied  no,  but  he  felt  mighty  bad,  and  asked  how  I  was 
feeling  now ;  I  told  him  I  felt  all  right,  never  felt  better  in  my 
life,  but  always  before  my  worst  attacks  I  feel  the  best.     Joe 
asked  if  he  hadn't  better  get  up  and  sleep  in  a  chair.     1  told 
him  no,  to  go  to  sleep,  that  he  could  tell  when  the  spells  were 
coming  on  by  my  jerking.     Joe  lay  still  a  little  while,  as  if 
planning  for 'an  emergency,  suddenly  starting  up  said,   sup 
pose  I  don't  wake  up  when  you  commence  jerking?     This  last 
remark  tickled  me  so  that  to  restrain  a  smothered  laugh   I 
made  a  few  jerks  before  I  intended  to.     Joe  made  a  spring, 
crying  out,  "  he's  jerking  boys,"  and  he  and  all  the  boys  went 
out  through  the  window  ;  I  followed  with  my  pistol  and  razor, 
and  of  course  took  after  Joe.     He  made  for  a  fence  and  corn 
patch  haid  by,  and  as  he  mounted  the  fence  I  blazed  away  with 
my  pistol ;  Joe  and  several  rails  fell  on  the  other  side,  and  as  he 
arose  I  was  close  behind  him,  then  through  the  corn  we  went, 
Joe  parting  the  stalks  with  both  hands,  as  he  ran  but  I  pushed 
him  so  close  that  he  turned  back  to  the  house  and  as  he  struck 
the   fence   again   I   split  his   shirt  with  my   razor  from    the 
colar  clean  out  to  the  end  of  the  tail,  making  an  apron  of  it ; 
we  rose  on  the  fence  together  and  came  down  on  the  other 
side  with  three  or  four  pannels  of  fence,  but  Joe  had  no  idea 
of  surrender,  making  a  break  for  Dr.  Earle's  room,   bursted 
through  the  door,  yelling  :  "  Doctor,  Doctor,  Doctor,  he's  got  a 
spell  on  him,  he's  nearly  killed  me,  oh  Lord,  Doctor  !  "     The 
Doctor  was  greatly  startled  and  his  family  badly  frightened, 
but  he  lighted  a  candle  and  there  stood  poor  Joe  in  his  wife's 
room,  shaking  with  terror,  his  shirt  split  and  entirely  open 
at  the  back.     The  Doctor  rushed  into  our  room  to  find  out  the 
trouble,  but  we  were  back  as  still  as  mice,  and  begged  pardon 
for  the  disturbance;  told  the  Doctor  we  had  not  intended  to 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  107 

carry  the  joke  so  far,  and  that  Joe  got  scared  worse  than  we 
wanted  him  to.  The  Doctor  laughed  and  went  back  to  his 
room  after  Joe,  but  could  not  make  him  believe  it  was  a 
joke,  nor  get  him  back  into  our  room  any  more.  The  Doctor 
had  to  set  up  with  Joe  the  balance  of  the  night  and  dose 
him  with  nerve  tonics,  and  send  him  home  in  the  morning. 
Joe  never  came  back  to  that  school  again,  and  I  have  never 
had  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  since,  but  I  have  ever 
regretted  that  little  cruel  escapade,  in  which  I  lost  a  friend 
and  admirer.  Joe  is  still  living  in  that  section  of  the  country, 
whore  he  married  and  raised  a  family  of  excellent  children,  is 
doing  well  and  is  a  solid  and  useful  citizen.  He  is  also  better 
off  in  this  world's  goods  than  I  am  and  no  doubt  a  better  man. 


JQg  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 


HERE'S  ANOTHER. 


E  said  Mr.  Kennedy  was  strict,  his  rules  not  only  applying 
to  our  school  hours,  but  also  to  our  conduct  at  our  board 
ing  house.  We  had  positive  orders  not  to  go  tracing  about  the 
country  after  night,  but  in  violation  of  this  most  august  author 
ity,  we  determined  to  go  to  a  quilting  and  dance  about  four 
miles  off  in  the  country.  In  this  spree  my  room-mates  were  my 
companions,  the  same  who  had  helped  me  to  scare  poor  Joe. 
We  had  lots  of  fun,  and  near  daylight  started  home,  but  when 
within  a  half  mile  of  the  house,  had  to  climb  one  of  Dr. 
Earle's  staked  and  ridered  fences.  We  mounted  it,  and  feeling 
a  little  tired,  sat  on  top  to  rest  awhile.  All  at  once  I  said  come, 
boys,  let's  go,  and  jumped  to  the  ground,  but  found  I  couldn't 
get,  up — had  broken  my  leg.  The  boys  picked  me  up  in  great 
consternation,  my  cousin,  Benson,  carrying  the  broken  limb  with 
the  tenderest  care,  the  least  jostle  causing  me  to  cry  out 
with  pain.  They  got  me  to  the  house  with  all  possible  care,  laid 
me  on  the  bed  and  went  for  Dr.  Earle,  who  came  in,  and  as  I 
lay  there  groaning,  I  managed  to  give  the  Doctor  the  wink 
(I  knew  he  loved  a  joke  as  well  as  anybody).  The  Doctor 
examined  my  leg  and  looked  very  solemn,  saying  now  boys, 
you  see  this  thing  would  not  have  happened  if  you  had 
obeyed  the  rules  of  your  teacher;  now,  here  lies  this  poor 
fellow  ruined  for  life;  this  is  what  is  called  a  compound 
duplicate  fracture  of  the  femur.  In  plain  English,  his  thigh  is 
broken  in  three  places,  and  if  it  aint  amputated  at  once,  then 


OR,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  109 

I  think  he  ought  to  be  switchulated.  I  could  not  stand  it  any 
longer,  but  sprang  out  of  the  bed  on  both  feet  in  a  shout  of 
laughter,  when  my  cousin,  Sloan  Benson,  jerked  off  his  coat 
and  swore  he  could  whip  any  d — d  broken-legged  rascal  in 
America,  and  it  took  all  the  boys  and  the  Doctor  to  hold  him 
off  of  me  until  he  sorter  coolsd  down;  but  I  soon  made  it  up 
with  the  boys,  and  as  we  were  all  in  sympathy  with  eachother 
about  going  to  the  frolic,  it  was  agreed  all  around  to  keep  the 
whole  matter  from  Mr.  Kennedy. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 


DISAPPOINTED    LOVE. 


I  OVK  is  a  powerful  thing;  it  has  caused  more  than  one  man 
to  leave  the  roof  of  his  father  and  mother  and  go  to 
furrin  parts  with  a  conquering  female  and  be  exposed  to  her 
tender  mercy;  and  agin,  it  has  been  the  cause  of  many  disap 
pointments,  for  many  fellows  have  got  left,  because  the  cruel 
female  didn't  want  him  to  move  off  with  her,  for  more  than 
many  times,  she  has  preferred  some  other  fellow  to  go  along 
and  keep  house  for  her. 

The  human  bosom  is  also  a  mighty  much  of  a  thing ;  it  is 
somewhat  labyrinthian  as  to  the  character  of  its  apartments, 
and  in  one  respect  it  is  liken  unto  a  reservoir,  they  both  have 
capacity  more  or  less,  the  one  inginerly  holds  mud  and  water 
and  trash  and  sich ;  the  other  holds  love  and  joy,  and  some 
other  things,  not  so  nice:  fear,  anger,  hate,  jealousy  etc., 
and  all  these  latter  sins,  are  called  passions,  and  they  go  in 
and  come  out  of  a  fellow's  bosom  as  they  please,  when  they  get 
the  bulge  on  him.  We  dont  know  for  certain  the  number  of 
therooms  they  stay  in  ;  some  say  the  heart,  the  main  office,  but 
we  have  thought  they  meander  about  in  the  different  streets 
and  suburbs  of  hisphysicological  anatomy,  that  sometimes  they 
may  scoot  from  the  heart  to  the  hollow  of  the  head,  and  back 
and  forth,  and  we  have  seriously  considered  that  they  mought 
at  times,*show  up  on  the  outside  of  a  man,  in  sich  places  as  the 
skin  of  hia  face,  the  optics  of  his  eyes,  and  the  very  har  of  his 
head,  selah? 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    OIIAIfGED.  Ill 

Love  is  more  severer  than  the  grip  when  it  pre-empts  a 
ninnan  bosom.  It  cannot  be  properly  called  an  epidemic,  yet 
:i  fellow  is  likely  to  take  it  at  most  any  time  before  he  gets 
married,  and  he  can  take  it  more  than  two  times  also,  but  the 
first  attack  in  some  cases  is  considered  the  worstest,  it  makes 
its  appearance  in  some  instances,  sudden  like  the  measles,  then 
again  tardeous,  like  a  cancer,  or  in  a  typhodity  manner,  there 
is  greater  danger  when  it  strikes  5n-nerd,  than  when  it  only 
shows  on  the  outside,  in  the  former  case  it  is  much  to  be 
dreaded,  for  it  has  been  khown  to  cause  a  man  to  go  plum  fool, 
and  has  driven  some  persons  to  commit  death  npon  themselves 
or  somebody  else,  and  in  every  case  where  it  strikes  the  interiro 
portfolio,  that  patient  ought  to  be  scrutinized  carefully,  but 
if  it  only  shows  on  the  superficial  areas,  there  aint  no  immi 
nent  danger,  as  the  fellow  will  convaless,  or  get  married,  which 
is  about  the  same  thing  in  Dutch. 

And  once  more,  there  aint  so  much  danger  in  the  passion  of 
love  if  it  visits  the  human  bosom  alone  by  itself,  but  like  some 
folks  we  know,  it  gits  into  bad  company,  if  it  gits  in  with  envy, 
hate,  anger,  and  the  green-eyed  monster  jealousy,  why  then 
there  is  apt  to  be  trouble,  and  it  is  strange  they  will  associate 
together,  fur  they  never  could  get  along  in  peace  and  hominy; 
I  say,  when  all  of  these  gits  in  thar  together,  its  like  a  pack  of 
ravening  wolves,  and  the  fellow  whats  got  that  bosom  is  in  a 
bad  fix,  sure,  and  there's  another  thing  goes  into  the  human 
bosom  when  the  door  is  open,  and  that  is  licker,  and  its  a  reg 
ular  ag-ger  on  of  fusses  and  other  devilment,  and  the  more  of 
it  that  goes  in,  the  worse  it  is  for  the  fellow  and  the  whole 
settlement. 

It  is  said  that  a  persen  looses  his  heart  when  the  passions  of 
love  gets  a  mortgage  on  it,  this  aint  according  to  our  polliticks; 


H2  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

we  honestly  deem  this  to  be  an  error,  the  fellow  may  lose  his 
gumption,  and  we  solmemnly  opine,  thats  hit;  fur  how  can  a 
fellow  lose  his  heart,  when  it  is  hitched  on  tight  to  the  liver 
and  lights,  it  seems  to  me  impossible  fur  the  heart  to  come  out 
without  bringing  all  the  in-nards  out  with  it  and  that  would 
wind  up  the  whole  kerflumux,  I  imagine. 

I  remember  vividly  when  the  passion  of  love  first  occupied 
my  vitals,  my  heart  was  unremoved ;  indeed  it  swelled  up  big 
ger,  and  a  protuberance  seemed  to  have  forced  up  into  the 
thorax,  and  caused  a  quite  uncomfortable,  and  choking  sensa 
tion,  but  subsequent  circumstances  have  corroborated  my  con 
victions  that  my  heart  remained  in  my  bosom  and  continued  to 
perform  in  a  desultary  way  its  accustomed  functions,  so  I  still 
surmise  that  all  this  talk  about  the  loosing  of  the  heart  is 
nothing  but  gass,  and  also  the  reports  about  hearts  abursting 
is  bosh  and  totally  onreliable. 

But  it  was  not  my  purpose  on  this  occasion  to  annihilize  the 
heart,  or  dissectify  the  subject  of  love  in  all  its  ramifications, 
my  primoval  object  was  narration.  I  wanted  to  norate  the 
history  of  my  experience  when  I  was  first  conflumicated  by 
this  phenomenon,  when  its  phantasmagora  first  developed  in 
my  tender  youth. 

How  fearfully  is  the  human  bosom  affected  when  first 
awakened  from  its  lethargy  by  the  passion  of  love.  I  had 
arrived  at  the  plastic  and  sweet  age  of  sixteen  when  its  first 
waves  swathed  my  peaceful  breast,  when  its  swashing  billows 
rolled  over  the  component  parts  of  my  cupidical  system.  It  was 
a  protracted  siege,  and  for  many  months  helt  me  suspended  over 
the  dark  chasms  of  doubt  and  hope,  until  the  chords  that  sup 
ported  my  trembling  carcass  became  frazzled,  and  at  last  the 
weakened  strands  snapped  asunder,  and  like  Lucifer  fell 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  113 

flodnndering  down  into  the  murky  abyss  of  despair;  'twas  a 
stunning  fall,  and  it  is  still  fresh  on  my  memory  to-day;  that  I 
was  deeply  impressed  at  that  especial  epoch  in  my  life;  that 
something  had  clrapt,  and  though  near  a  half  century  has  sped 
o'er  the  hills  and  valleys  of  time  since  then,  I  doubt  not  that 
some  of  the  footprints  of  that  eventful  period  mought  still  be 
traced  amidsts  the  sands  of  my  gizzard. 

I  first  diagnosed  my  trouble  from  the  great  disquietitude 
raging  in  the  interior  of  my  internalities,  fur  indeed,  they 
seemed  to  be  litterally  tored  up;  my  old  friend  slumber  became 
estranged  from  my  habitual  command,  my  grub  lost  its  for 
mer  savory  attractions,  instead  of  my  previous  eubulistic  gush, 
I  was  now  wont  to  go  it  alone,  a  sort  of  lonesome  far  off  feel 
ing  had  sot  down  on  me.  I  forsook  the  society  of  my  old  hale- 
fellows  well-met,  sought  the  mellowed  rays  of  the  sympathetic 
moon  beams.  I  tried  to  hold  sweet  converse  with  the  t wink 
ing  little  stars,  fur  I  felt  an  aching  void  in  my  raging  bosom, 
that  nothing  else  on  earth  but  she  could  ever  fill.  But  in  the 
vehemence  of  my  desire,  my  powers  of  conquest  seemed  bar- 
daceously  parrallalized,  and  in  the  persuit  of  the  object  of  my 
yearning  I  became  both  blind  and  dumb,  and  my  whole  pan 
oply  for  acquiring  victory,  want  nothing  but  dern  fool  ardour. 
As  to  tact  or  diplomacy,  I  was  asguideless  as  a  timblebusr,  my 
intontions  were  noble,  but  even  a  superficial  observer  might 
have  remarked,  "his  intentions  were  good,  but  darn  his  judg 
ment." 

But  now  I  approach  the  climax,  the  focus-pokus,  the  culmi 
nating  point  of  the  pittiful  finale.  I  had  on  divers  previous 
occasions  made  desperate  efforts  to  pop  the  question,  but  upon 
every  assay  courage  had  oozed  out.  and  had  resulted  in  signal 
disaster,  when  I  confronted  the  fortress.  When  the  time  for 


114  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

discreet  and  skillful  action  was  required  that  was  the  very 
time  when  my  intellectual  forces  all  vanished  into  the  vaguest 
vagaries,  and  then  too  tbe  organs  of  sound,  as  well  as  the  mus 
cular  attachments  of  my  tongue  refused  absolutely  to  corres 
pond.  When  I  was  absent  from  my  sweet  pnrralizer,  then, 
my  obstinate  vocabulary  was  prolific  of  words,  and  my  per 
verse  tongue  most  fluent  of  speech,  and  often  in  romatic  groves, 
and  under  the  somberous  shades  of  giant  oaks,  I  have  sat  with 
my  finger  tips  rippling  in  the  limped  waters  of  gurgling  brooks 
rehearseing  sweet  phrases  of  my  own  composition.,  until  I 
thought  I  had  them  engraven  upon  my  memory,  and  that  I 
was  bravely  prepaied  tor  the  next  onslaught,  but  in  the  pres 
ence  of  those  ravishing  eyes,  all  had  vanished  into  a  misty 
dream.  To  be  absent  from  this  adored  one,  was  to  me  the 

pangs  of  death,  and  my  embarassment  in  her  presence,  was  as 

• 
a  night-horse  pressing  his  horny  hoofs  upon   my  smothering 

bosom,  to  say  simply  that  I  loved  her  would  be  an  imbecility 
of  expression — with  extacy  I  would  have  died  for  her  (provided 
I  could  feel  assured  no  other  fellow  would  get  her);  I  would 
cheerfully  have  laid  my  hypnotized  body  down  on  the  cold, 
cold,  ground,  with  her  fairy  foot  upon  my  neck  absolutely 
content  and  happy  till  the  crack  of  doom.  What  more  can  I 
say? 

I  had  now  reached  the  last  stage  of  desperation,  and  besought 
the  sympathetic  aid  of  a  sweet  cousin,  and  through  her 
friendly  manipulation  arranged  a  fishing  party  especially  for 
this,  my  contemplated  coup.  With  cruel  anxiety  I  looked 
forward  to  that  coming  day  as  the  most  important  era  of  the 
coming  age  and  fraught  with  the  most  momentous  results  that 
\v:i>  to  occur  on  the  continent  of  America.  It  almost  takes 
my  breath  after  all  these  years,  when  my  thoughts  recur  to  the 


OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  115 

torrents  of  anxiety,  the  earthquakes  of  apprehension,  and  the 
cyclonic  palpatations  of  the  heart,  as  that  day,  so  pregnant 
with  profound  results,  approached.  But  at  last  it  came,  the 
morning  of  the  day  came  bounding  in  o'er  the  cycles  of  time. 
I  donned  my  best  suit  of  blue  geans  and  advanced  to  meet  the 
engagement.  I  didn't  sing  any  poeansof  victory  as  I  marched 
to  the  front,  for  I  did  not  feel  assured  that  my  march  would  be 
a  triumphal  one.  I  often  repeated  to  myself  the  maxim* 
"  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,"  and  would  bristle  up  con 
siderably  for  awhile,  but  soon  found  that  I  was  no  porcupine 
and  that  my  bristles  wouldn't  stand  worth  a  cent.  O,  how  I 
longed  for  some  such  a  backbone  as  is  possessed  by  our  ex- 
President  Cleveland,  still  I  proceeded  and  actually  assembled 
with  my  Dulcina,  and  started  as  her  escort  to  the  fishing 
grounds,  but  right  here  my  memory  fails  me.  I  must  have 
made  the  intervening  space  in  a  walking  swoon,  for  when  the 
first  glimpse  of  consciousness  returned  I  discovered  we  two 
standing  on  the  banks  of  the  creek,  with  a  couple  of  fishing 
poles  tucked  under  my  arm,  but  I  had  lost  the  hooks  and  the 
bait ;  a  haloe  of  glory  seemed  to  surround  me,  the  opportunity 
had  come.  I  assayed  to  speak  and  tried  to  concentrate  all  the 
ideas  of  my  soul  into  one  grand  captivating  address  ;  that's 
what  I  wanted  to  do  and  that's  what  I  tried  to  do,  but  sud 
denly  the  old  panic  seized  me  and  again  I  flickered,  and  the 
only  thing  I  could  think  to  say  to  her  was,  "  did  you  get  a 
bite?"  When  she  naively,  but  sweetly  replied,  "How  could 
I  without  a  hook?"  Just  then  I  caught  another  spark  from 
her  electrical  eyes  and  went  off  into  a  new  swoon.  I  can 
make  no  report  of  what  further  happened,  until  the  next 
return  of  consciousness,  when  I  found  us  in  a  pathway  on  our 
return  to  her  home ;  the  parental  mansion  was  in  sight  and  my 


1  16  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

opportunity  perhaps  lost  forever.  This  fact  aroused  me  to  a 
a  sense  of  the  situation,  lost,  lost,  lost,  seemed  to  ring  through 
ray  burning  brain ;  the  extremity  of  the  case  impelled  me  to 
heroic  action,  it  was  the  "  denier  resort,"  and  resolved  to 
plunge  the  rubicon,  suddenly  exclaime~d  aloud,  "the  die  is 
cast,"  every  muscle  of  my  body  taught  with  excitement,  with 
distorted  features,  the  fingers  of  both  hands  run  through  my 
disheveled  hair,  blood-shot  eyes,  nearly  popping  from  their 
sockets,  I  sprang  like  a  wild  varmint  in  the  pathway  fronting 
the  angelic  damsel,  and  with  the  yell  of  an  Indian,  cried: 
"Stand,  brave  Saxon,  stand."  She  gave  one  glance  of  horror 
at  my  demoniacal  expression,  then  sprang  past  like  a  fright 
ened  deer  and  fled  to  the  safety  of  her  homa. 

I  stood  transfixed,  rooted,  grounded  to  the  spot,  and  would 
no  doubt  be  there  yet,  a  pillar  of  salt,  but  for  my  affectionate 
cousin,  who  sought  and  led  me  from  the  fatal  spot. 

I  never  tried  it  again  by  word  of  mouth,  but  after  a  lapse  of 
time  I  wrote  her  a  beautiful  epistle,  which  she  answered 
promptly,  saying  her  hand  was  pledged  to  another,  but  would 
ever  esteem  me  as  one  of  her  most  devoted  admirers.  Then  I 
felt  my  sandy  hair  would  surely  go  down  in  sorrew  to  an  early 
grave ;  but  it  didn't,  I'm  still  on  deck,  without  an  apparent 
scar,  married  another  girl,  have  lived  with  her  thirty-five  years 
reasonably  happy  and  content.  Amen. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  117 


SHIRT-TAIL    CANYON,    CALIFORNIA. 


\  i  /HILE  there  is  nothing  wicked  or  improper  in  this  narra 
tion,  yet  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  temerity  and  shame- 
facedness  that  I  pen  it.  This  sketch  is  not  intended  for  the 
eyes  of  the  ladies  (for  men  only);  had  rather  they  would  not 
read  it,  but  if  through  curiosity  any  of  them  should  do  so, 
then  they  ought  not  to  call  us  hard  names. 

Shirt-tail  Canyon  is  a  deep,  rough  gorge,  more  than  a  thous 
and  feet  down  to  the  creek  bed,  and  the  gold-diggers  in 
descending  its  rough  slopes  have  to  submit  to  frequent  falls 
and  slides,  in  consequence  of  which  the  seats  of  their  corde- 
roys  suffer  divers  abrasions,  and  in  the  course  of  time 
and  the  frequency  of  these  slides,  the  lower  or  other 
end  of  their  shirts  become  exposed,  and  not  unfrequently 
even  obtrude  from  their  proper  indoor  position,  and  this 
common  custom  of  dress  from  this  particular  section  gave  to 
the  canyon  this  inelegant  name. 

It  was  an  inconvenient  portion  of  the  mining  region,  the 
nearest  trading  point  being  Yankee  Jim's,  a  smart  mining 
town,  and  it  got  its  name  from  the  hanging  of  a  man  on  the 
spot,  of  that  name.  It  was  no  little  job  for  the  boys  to  get  in 
and  out  of  Shirt-tail  Canyou,  therefore  they  made  as  few  trips 
as  possible,  so  when  not  engaged  i«  work  they  were  often 
taxed  to  find  amusement ;  of  course  gambling  of  every  kind 
was  prevalent  throughout  the  mines,  and  the  most  common 
and  convenient  games  were  with  cards,  but  tiring  of  cards 


Hg  THE  fonf  DAYS  AND  NOW; 

they  would  sometimes  resort  to  racing,  not  horse  racing,  for  a 
horse  cannot  be  got  down  into  that  abyss  alive,  nor  could  a 
race  track  be  secured  in  that  rough  region  ;  not  foot  racing^ 
for  even  a  man  had  to  pick  his  way  down  there,  yet  the  boys 
had  racing,  "kritter  racing;"  the  racers  were  "body  kritters." 
The  boys  would  select  from  their  persons  the  best  bred  of 
these  little  fleet  footed  fellows,  put  them  in  a  tin  plate,  push  a 
coal  of  fire  behind  them,  when  around  the  track  they  would 
gallop  at  an  astonishing  pace  to  those  unacquainted  with  the 
sport,  till  the  third,  or  any  number  of  rounds  agreed  upon  by 
the  bettors,  and  of  course  the  foremost  "kritter"  won  the  race. 
Often  large  bets  were  made  on  these  pets,  and  some  of  them 
have  frequently  been  known  to  win  their  weight  in  gold 
dust. 

Californians  did  not  regard  these  little  "kritters"  with  the 
prejudice  and  disgust  that  seems  general  in  the  Eastern  States. 
These  body  "kritters"  were  simply  unavoidable  in  the  California 
camps ;  they  were  indigenius  to  the  soil  and  climate,  and  indeed 
usage  and  customs  have  much  to  do  with  our  likes  and  dislikes 
in  different  parts  of  the  woi-ld.  The  French  like  horse  steak 
the  Chinaman  rat  pies,  the  Dutch  dog  sausage,  the  cannibal 
human  flesh,  and  the  American  eats  the  filthy  hog.  In  the 
California  diggins  in  those  days,  if  one  of  the  boys  were  asked 
"what's  the  matter — fleas?"  He  would  invariably  reply, 
"  No,  I'm  not  a  dog,  its  nothing  but  a  louse ; "  but  we  will  not 
dwell  longer  on  a  subject  so  repugnant  to  our  present  country 
men. 

The  mining  section  of^  California  seems  to  have  been  an  ele 
vated  plateau  intermediate  between  the  Nevada  mountains 
and  the  lower  plains  adjacent  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  the 
heavy  winter  rains  causing  the  torrent  streams  in  their  descent 


OR,    TIIK    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  119 

to  the  plains  below  to  cut  out  these  deep  gulleys  or  gorges, 
aud  in  the  washing  down  of  the  veins  and  pockets  the  loos 
ened  particles  of  gold  are  carried  down  to  the  creek  beds  and 
deposited  in  the  lowest  bottoms,  though  sometimes  pockets  are 
only  partially  interfered  with  and  left  on  the  sides  of  the 
slopes,  and  have  often  been  discovered  by  the  miners  far 
above  the  present  water  beds.  One  of  our  most  expert  miners 
was  Jim  Kennedy,  from  Lmnpkin  County,  Ga.  He  was  con 
sidered  authority  on  the  subject  of  gold  mines,  and  he  had 
often  pointed  out  a  spot  to  be  seen  from  our  camp,  where  he 
believed  was  a  rich  pocket,  yet  his  faith  was  not  strong 
enough  to  make  the  test,  which  would  require  a  considerable 
amount  of  labor. 

One  day  a  raw  Dutchman  made  the  descent  into  Shirt-tail 
Canyon'  and  wanted  a  gold  mine.  We  sent  him  to  Kennedy, 
who  directed  him  to  this  spot  and  gave  him  directions  how  to 
work  it.  The  Dutchman  went  at  it  faithfully  and  confidently, 
worked  day  after  day,  and  would  bring  down  his  pans  of  dirt 
to  the  water  to  wash  for  the  gold  sign.  One  evening  he  came 
down  as  usual  with  his  pan  of  dirt,  and  on  washing  it  out  dis 
covered  he  had  made  a  rich  find  of  gold.  Kennedy  tried  to 
buy  him  out  or  an  interest,  but  he  wouldn't  sell  worth  a  cent, 
not  even  a  partnership,  and  after  a  few  months  exhausted  the 
pocket,  and  went  home  with  more  than  $20,000.  I  heard  of 
another  Dutch  cook  who  knew  nothing  whatever  about  min 
ing,  who  went  out  one  Sunday  morning  with  a  pick  and  found 
the  biggest  piece  of  gold  ever  found  in  the  State,  sold  it  to  a 
man  for  $40,  and  which  proved  to  be  worth  over  $7,000.  I 
saw  the  lump  or  nugget  on  a  gambling  table  in  Sacramento 
City,  about  a  year  after  the  find. 


120  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NO\V; 


CHASED  BY  WOLVES  IN  CALIFORNIA. 


OECOMING  tired  of  the  gold  mines,  and  desiring  a  change,  I 
determined  to  go  to  San  Francisco,  and  shoot  wild  fowls  for 
the  city  market.  On  the  boat  from  Sacramento  down  the  river, 
I  heard  some  passengers  speaking  of  Noble's  ranche.  They 
thought  he  was  a  South  Carolinian,  and  I  was  satisfied 
it  was  my  old  friend  and  schooll-mate,  Alick,  a  son  of 
ex-Gov.  Noble,  of  S.  C.  Many  a  time  had  we  hunted  together 
in  the  mountains  of  N.  C.,  so  concluded  to  change  my  pur 
pose  for  the  present,  and  pay  him  a  visit.  From  San  Francisco 
I  took  a  small  steamer  to  Petaluma,  and  from  thence  not  being 
able  to  secure  a  conveyance,  after  receiving  instructions  as  to 
the  route,  struck  out  on  foot,  a  distance  of  sixteen  miles. 

I  always  carried  my  shot  gun,  and  my  way  leading  some  dis 
tance  down  a  creek,  discovered  a  number  of  fine  English  ducks, 
and  soon  became  engaged  in  shooting  and  packing  my  game, 
oblivious  to  latitude,  or  longitude,  or  the  flight  of  time,  nor 
did  the  waning  hours  occur  to  me  till  late  in  the  afternoon  ; 
nor  had  I  paid  any  attention  to  the  instructions  given  me  as 
to  destination,  was  satisfied  I  had  wandered  considerably  out 
of  my  coarse,  so  gave  up  the  sport  and  turned  my  attention  to 
the  seeking  of  my  friend's  home,  still  hoping  to  reach  it  before 
night  fall ;  but  dark  overtook  me  trudging  along,  with  a  heavy 
pack  of  ducks  swung  across  my  shoulders,  tired  and  foot-sore. 
I  was  thinking  of  my  far-off  home,  of  friends  and  comforts  left 
behind.  A  sudden  feeling  of  desolation  occupied  my  mind,  and 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  121 

a  premonition  of  some  coming  evil  depressed  my  spirits.  My 
reveries  were  broken  by  the  sound  of  a  quick  yelp,  and  a  suc 
cession  of  weird  howls  wafted  on  the  still  night  air.  The  truth 
flashed  upon  me  as  an  electric  shock,  wolves !  I  had  heard  the 
sound  before.  I  knew  the  gray  wolf  of  the  Blue  Ridge  moun 
tains.  I  had  read  of  the  ruthless  red  Russian  wolf,  and  of  human 
bones  bleaching  on  the  plains.  I  was  at  first  startled,  now 
alarmed,  for  I  knew  they  would  soon  be  upon  my  track ;  all  my 
fatigue  vanished,  forgot  my  skinned  heels,  and  quickened  my 
pace  into  a  trot.  Directly  the  yelps  multiplied  and  constantly 
became  more  distinct ;  they  were  on  my  track  and  getting 
nearer  every  minute ;  were  rapidly  gaining  on  me ;  that  my 
pack  of  ducks  w"ere  impedeing  my  speed,  I  had  not  thought  of 
before.  I  dashed  the  game  on  the  ground,  and  spurred  into  a 
gallop ;  but  on  came  the  wolves.  I  could  hear  them  scrambling 
and  fighting  over  my  game,  but  I  did  not  stop  to  listen — but 
got  faster — my  whole  mind  and  body  concentrated  in  one 
grand  central  idea :  to  get  away  from  those  wolves  if  there  was 
any  possible  chance  to  do  so.  I  revolted  at  the  thought  that 
my  poor  carcass  should  make  their  next  repast,  as  I  sped  along 
the  plain.  I  saw  off  to  my  right  a  huge  rock  rising  in  the  prai 
rie.  I  turned  my  course  thither,  and  as  1  drew  nearer  found  its 
front  inaccessible,  but  running  round  discovered  a  water  rut, 
and  up  this  groove  I  climbed  to  the  verry  top  and  stopped, 
because  I  could'nt  get  any  higher.  By  this  time,  the  terrible 
brutes  had  finished  the  ducks,  and  were  again  on  my  track ; 
nor  did  I  doubt  for  a  moment  that  they  wanted  the  man  who 
killed  the  ducks.  I  at  once  began  preparations  for  defense 
My  gun  being  empty,  I  quickly  threw  down  the  old  muzzle  loader 
a  couple  of  charges  of  powder,  rammed  down  the  wads,  seized 
my  shot  pouch,  when  to  my  horror,  discovered  that 


122  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    XOVV  : 

I  had  galloped  all  the  shot  out  of  my  pouch,  and  now 
the  wolves  were  around  the  rock,  and  had  set  up  the  most  hid 
eous  and  hungry  howl.  I  could  see  their  dusky  forms  and 
gleaming  eyes — they  seemed  unusually  large — larger  than  the 
gray  wolf  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  and  perhaps  more  ferocious  than 
the  terrible  Russian  wolf.  Now,  two  of  the  daring  devils  start 
up  the  very  rut  that  I  came,  and  as  they  get  in  a  few  feet  of  me, 
I  let  both  barrels  of  powder  off  right  in  their  faces.  This  was  a 
surprise,  they  rolled  down  the  rock  and  the  whole  pack  scam 
pered  away.  Just  then  a  flash  of  light  caught  my  eye  out  on 
the  prairie — some  body's  home.  I  slid  down  the  rock  and  made 
for  the  light.  I  never  felt  so  agile  before  in  all  my  life,  as  I 
seemed  to  fly  over  the  grassy  land,  and  during  that  brief  transit, 
the  panorama  of  my  whole  life  passed  before  me.  My 
thoughts  traveled  from  childhood  to  the  present  and  on  into 
the  next  world  to  the  judgment  to  come;  but  all  this  did  not 
impede  my  speed  in  the  least.  I  believe  that  extraordinary  phys 
ical  action  produces  extraordinay  mental  action,  and  vice  versa 
It  is  retroactive,  and  just  then  I  felt  assiired  that  all  my  mental 
and  physical  forces  were  pulling  together.  I  knew  I  must 
annihilate  time  and  space,  or  be  annihilated  myself,  for  the 
ravenous  beasts  were  again  on  my  track.  They  were  coming, 
closing  up  the  little  space  between  us.  I  could  almost  feel  their 
hot  breath  and  bloody  fangs,  rending  my  limbs  and  gnawing 
into  my  vitals. 

I  reached  the  house  first,  the  bloody  wolves  at  my  heels.  I 
did  not  try  to  ring  the  bell,  and  gave  but  one  knock  at  the  door; 
.knocked  the  door  clean  through,  both  falling  inside,  but  I  was 
on  top  of  the  door  and  had  burst  into  the  kitchen.  The  hur- 
ricane  awoke  the  cook,  a  Sweede,  and  he  was  scared  nearly 
as  bad  as  I  w:.s.  He  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  nor 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  123 

could  I  speak  :i  word  for  want  of  breath;  for  sometime  we 
stared  at  each  other  ;  but,  oh  !  I  felt  so  thankful  that  I  was 
safe,  when  sufficiently  recovered.  I  tried  to  make  the  Sweede 
understand  my  narrow  escape  from  the  wolves,  and  just  about 
the  time  I  thought  he  was  catching  on  to  my  signs,  the  fool 
commenced  laughing  as  if  his  very  sides  would  split  open,  and 
then  I  feared  he  had  lost  his  reason  from  fright,  but  after  a 
spell  he  checked  up  and  I  succeeded  in  making  him  under 
stand  that  I  was  Noble's  friend;  he  indicated  to  me  that 
Noble  had  gone  out  but  would  soon  return,  and  gave  me  a  lunch 
and  showed  me  a  cot.  I  could  not  sleep  after  so  much 
excitement,  and  my  heart  was  so  full  of  gratitude  that  my 
unworthy  life  had  been  spared  by  what  appeared  to  be  a 
special  interposition  of  Providence.  As  I  lay  there  in  the  cot, 
I  reflected  much  and  tried  to  repent  of  my  many  mis 
deeds  and  shortcomings,  and  formed  many  good  resolutions  for 
future  conduct. 

Late  in  the  night  I  heard  my  friend  Noble  return,  heard  him 
talking  to  the  cook  and  heard  them  both  laughing ;  after 
awhile  Noble  came  in  and  recognized  me  with  great  joy,  and 
as  soon  as  our  first  greeting  was  over  I  tried  to  tell  him  of  my 
wonderful  escape  from  the  terrible  wolves,  when  to  my  aston 
ishment  and  mortification  he  broke  out  into  a  hysterical  fit  of 
laughter,  and  laughed  until  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
He  saw  that  I  felt  hurt  and  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  his 
faculties  he  said:  "Why  Dave,  they  were  nothing  but  harm 
less  coyotes,  and  were  never  known  to  attack  a  man."  I  told 
him  how  large  they  were  and  how  their  eyes  gleamed  on  me. 
lie  said  :  "  No,  they  were  not  half  as  large  as  the  Blue  Ridge 
wolf,  and  absolutely  harmless. 

But  those  pretended  wolves  had  hurt  my  feelings  and  I 
determined  to  be  avenged  upon  them,  and  before  I  left  the 
California  prairies,  killed  as  many  of  them  as  I  thought  tried  to 
kill  me. 


124  THE   FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW ; 


A  RABUN  COUNTY,  GA.,  FROLIC. 


IN  the  olden  times,  dancing  was  by  odds  the  favorite  amuse- 
ment  with  the  young  people,  and  in  my  youthful  days  I 
engaged  in  all  kinds  of  terpsichorean  felicities,  participated  in 
the  fashionable  cotillions,  waltzes  and  polkas,  at  the  balls, 
weddings  and  parties,  with  the  elite  of  that  day  ;  have  been 
to  the  piney  woods  frolics,  shin  digs  and  stag  dance*,  but  in 
Rabun  County,  Ga.,  where  once  lived  our  Chief  Justice 
Bleckley  and  the  silver-tongued  H.  V.  M.  Miller,  I  attended  a 
frolic,  that  for  intensity  of  enjoyment,  cast  a  glamour  over  all 
the  balance  of  my  experience. 

I  had  recently  returned  from  California,  and  my  father  was  a 
contractor  on  the  old  Blue  Ridge  Railroad,  in  South  Carolina, 
and  had  taken  a  contract  in  Rabun  County,  Ga.,  known  as 
the  Whitmire  fill,  and  said  by  Col.  Walter  Gwinn,  chief 
engineer,  to  be  the  deepest  railroad  fill  then  known,  measuring 
108  feet  from  the  culvert  to  the  top  of  grade,  and  a  descrip 
tion  of  which  was  given  by  our  Judge  George  Hilly er  in  an 
Athens  paper,  in  his  youthful  reportorial  work,  and  where  I 
first  made  his  acquaintance. 

In  this  contract  I  was  to  be  a  partner  as  well  as  a  manager 
and  had  made  a  horse-back  trip  up  into  Rabun.  I  was  riding 
through  the  rich  valley,  at  the  very  head-waters  of  the  Ten 
nessee  river,  with  a  resident  young  man  named  Major  Gibson. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  (dusk  had  already  commenced  to  throw 
its  sable  mantle  over  the  beautiful  valley),  as  we  passed  a  store 


OK,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  125 

we  were  informed  of  a  log-rolling  and  quilting  close  by,  and 
decided  to  attend ;  but  as  we  had  not  participated  in  the  labor 
of  rolling  logs,  and  did  not  like  to  intrude  without  some 
equivolent  on  our  part  as  a  contribution,  so  bought  a  jug  of 
mountain  dew  and  had  it  sent 'over  to  the  frolic;  we  were 
welcomed  and  our  present  was  well  received  by  the  boys.  We 
were  introduced  as  the  men  from  Californy,  and  we  all  took  a 
familiar  smile  from  the  afore-mentioned  jug. 

The  quilts  having  been  finished  and  removed,  the  frolic  had 
already  commenced.  Our  host,  Jack  Bradley,  was  the  fiddler; 
his  favorite  tune  was  an  old-time  famous  one,  and  widely 
known  as  "  Rye  Straw,"  and  Jack's  performance  was  entirely 
confined  to  the  bottom  part  of  the  tune,  but  after  a  bit  (like 
the  Arkansaw  Traveler)  I  ventured  to  ask  him  if  he  never 
went  up  stairs  on  that  tune  ?  He  answered  he  didn't,  because 
he  didn't  know  where  the  steps  was,  and  handing  me  the 
instrument  asked  if  I  could  play  the  fiddle?  I  answered  that 
sometimes  I  sawed  a  little  and  put  the  upper  story  on  "  Rye 
Straw  "  the  best  I  could.  It  proved  a  ten  strike,  as  I  soon 
discovered  that  I  had  become  a  very  popular  person.  I  showed 
Bradley  the  stairsteps  and  soon  had  him  educated  so  he  could 
go  through  the  upper  story  of  the  tune. 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  slap  on  the  shoulder  and  turning,  discov 
ered  my  assaulter  to  be  a  splendid  specimen  of  fresh  mountain 
girlhood,  a  beauty  with  rosy  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes.  She 
said,  "  Californy,  less  you  and  me  take  a  turn."  'Nough  said, 
says  I,  as  quick  as  a  cat  could  wink  its  eye,  and  calling  on 
Bradley  to  give  us  the  best  he  had  in  the  shop,  he  promised  to 
empty  out  the  gourd  for  us,  and  added  :  "  Go  it,  Californy,  if 
you  keep  up  with  that  gal  there  aint  nothing  in  this  valley  too 
good  for  you."  Now,  the  floor  of  the  house,  like  many  others 


jog  THE    FOOT    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

in  that  section,  was  made  of  puncheons,  split  out  from  the 
forest  trees  and  laid  on  chestnut  or  wild  locust  sleepers,  and, 
consequently,  quite  springy.  Chairs  in  Rabun  County  were 
not  then  so  plentiful  as  they  now  are  in  Atlanta,  and  it  Vas 
not  an  unpopular  custom  for  tfwo  of  the  young  people  to  sit  on 
the  same  chair  together  and  in  a  dance,  frequently  a  couple 
would  occupy  the  floor,  especially  in  a  break-down. 

I  had  been  challenged  by  the  belle  of  the  valley  to  single 
combat  and  knew  I  was  in  for  it,  but  had  fully  determined  to 
be  on  hand  when  she  got  through.  I  led  Miss  Mary  D.  a  few 
turns  up  and  down  the  hall,  stopped  in  the  center  where  we 
made  our  bows,  forwarded  and  back,  swung  corners  and  circled 
all,  crossed  over  and  back,  then  the  fun  commenced.  I  made 
a  pass  and  she  coquetted,  I  cornered  and  she  chassed,  I 
shuffled  and  she  sidewized,  I  pigeon-winged  and  she  wire-toed, 
I  double-shuffled  and  she  gave  the  toe-whiz,  I  gave  a  jim-crow 
lick  and  she  kill-krankled,  I  struck  a  break-down  and  she  hit 
the  hurricane,  I  went  into  a  jig  and  she  jiggareed,  and  for 
every  lead  I'd  make  she'd  call  me  and  go  one  better ;  now  and 
then  we'd  change  sides  and  cross  back  into  another  break 
down,  and  it  was  go  it  Miss  Mary,  hurry  Californy,  and  Jack 
Bradley  seemed  to  have  got  inspiration  on  "  Rye  Straw." 
Major  Gibson  beat  the  fiddle  strings  with  straws,  one  fellow 
beat  a  triangle,  several  were  patting  and  every  gal  was  keep 
ing  time  on  the  floor  with  her  feet,  and  the  heads  all  around 
the  room  were  bobbing  up  and  down  with  the  spring  of  the 
elastic  floor.  Now  and  then  some  chap  would  sing  out,  "go  it 
frolic,  yer  dady's  rich  and  no  poor  kin  ;  "  "  hurry  Miss  Mary, 
come  down  to  it  Californy,"  and  we  were  both  doing  our  very 
level  best.  Miss  Mary  was  a  picture— to  say  she  looked  a  thing 
of  life  would  be  but  a  feeble  and  emaciated  expression.  I  can 


OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  1*27 

still  see  her  after  the  lapse  of  time  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
those  dead  setto's,  her  lythe  and  willowy  form  swaying  from 
side  to  side  in  a  quiver  of  action,  athletic  and  graceful  in  her 
very  motion,  head  and  shoulders  a  little  inclined  to  the  front, 
the  folds  of  her  blue-checked  homespun  frock  grasped  in  her 
hands  on  either  side,  a  little  raised  to  clear  her  shapely  ankles, 
her  skirts  artistically  spread  out  and  in,  to  a  perfect  harmony 
of  motion,  and  her  dainty  feet  would  strike  that  puncheon 
floor  with  the  quick  beat  of  a  knitting-machine,  and  she 
skimmed  the  floor  as  smoothly  as  a  full-rigged  brig,  as  she  cuts 
the  great  deep,  rocking  from  side  to  side  before  a  spanking 
breeze  (talk  about  your  germans  of  this  advanced  day  and  of 
the  enjoyments  of  your  young  folks,  all  tame  to  that).  And 
I  was  right  about  there  too,  head  and  shoulders  thrown  back 
to  the  break-down,  a  little  to  the  front  in  the  pigeon-wing, 
arms  flying  to  help  the  feet  keep  time  to  the  music;  the 
weather  was  getting  equatorial,  the  perspiration  streaming, 
and  we  were  just  getting  down  properly  to  our  knitting  in 
what  is  called  the  cyclone  movement,  when  the  music  suddenly 
ceased.  Jack  Bradley  had  sawed  his  treble  string  clean  in  two' 
and  it  was  a  draw  between  me  and  the  belle  of  the  Tennessee 
Valley.  We  retired  to  a  chair  amid  the  plaudits  of  the 
crowd  ;  were  pretty  well  blowed  and  a  little  fatigued,  but  I 
found  a  delightful  repose  for  my  arms,  and  my  partner  rested 
one  of  hers  on  her  lap  and  the  other  round  my  shoulder.  Miss 
Mary  felt  a  little  warm,  but  not  at  all  disagreeably  so  ;  our 
temperatures  ranged  about  the  same  degree  farenheit.  The 
caloris  gradually  cooled  down  to  its  normal  state  and  we  spent 
several  very  agreeable  moments  together  watching  the  other 
couples  as  they  would  take  a  turn. 

"We  danced  all  night  till  broad  daylight  and  went  home 


128  THE    FOGY    DATS    AND    NOW  J 

with  the  girls  in  the  morning,"  and  as  we  passed  the  store 
treated  the  girls  to  torter  shell  side  combs  and  sacrament  wine. 
The  Miss  Mary  D.,  of  the  valley,  is  still  there,  but  now  a 
silverhaired  matron  and  the  faithful  mother  of  a  crowd  of 
excellent  children.  My  locks  too  have  changed  to  a  frosty 
hue,  though  now  and  then  I  still  saw  on  my  old  fiddle  and 
never  strike  old  "  Rye  Straw "  but  I  think  of  Miss  Mary  and 
the  Rabun  County  frolic,  and  when  I  compare  the  good  old 
usages  of  those  days  with  the  present  fashionable  arm  clutch, 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  restrain  a  feeling  of  contempt. 


MRS.   JULIA   A.   SLOAN. 


OB,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  131 


THE    VICTIM. 


I  HAD  profited  by  experience;  my  second  effort  was  adroitly 
and  ably  managed — was  an  eminent  and  triumphant  suc 
cess  in  every  particular.  I  had  now  reached  the  more  mature 
age  of  twenty-six  years,  and  had  become  more  rational  in 
many  respects  \  and  while  it  still  gives  me  pleasure  to  crow 
over  this  victory,  I  want  to  tote  fair,  and  right  here  make  the 
acknowlegment  that  my  victim  was  captured  at  the  tender 
and  inexperienced  age  of  fifteen,  and  of  course  more  suscept 
ible  than  one  more  advanced  in  maidenhood.  This  avowment, 
I  am  aware,  will  detract  a  part  of  the  glory,  but  I  have  still 
enough  left  to  make  me  feel  comfortable,  and,  besides,  after 
the  lapse  of  thirty-five. brief  years,  have  got  the  old  girl  to- 
boot. 

I  had  long  ago  become  reconciled  to  my  first  disaster,  had 
now  and  then  sparred  a  little  among  the  girls,  but  nothing 
serious  had  occurred.  Now  I  began  to  realize  the  need  of  a 
help-mete;  wanted  a  good  wife,  craved  the  refining  influences 
of  a  good  woman,  to  pare  away  the  rougher  protuberances  of 
my  nature.  I  caught  the  idea  from  the  poet  Tupper,  and  want 
him  to  have  the  credit  of  it — to  pray  for  a  wife,  to  pray  for  a 
good  wife,  just  such  a  wife  as  the  Good  Lord  knew  I  needed. 
I  did  pray  in  faith,  believing,  and  watched  for;  and  to-be-sure 
my  prayer  was  answered  in  such  an  especial  manner,  to  my 
mind,  as  to  leave  no  doubt  that  it  was  in  response  to  my  ear 
nest  supplications.  I  met  with  my  fate  at  Anderson,  S.  C.,  in 


132  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

the  person  of  a  college  girl,  who  was  so  pointedly  flung  in  my 
pathway  that  I  recognized  in  her,  at  once,  the  providential 
boon.  As  pretty  as  a  pink,  as  gentle  as  a  clove,  and  sweeter 
to  me  than  taffy.  I  gathered  all  my  forces  and  stormed  the 
citadel  without  delay,  allowing  no  grass  to  grow  under  my 
diligent  feet.  I  went  in  to  win,  and  the  recollection  of  my 
former  weakness  only  made  me  the  stronger  and  more  deter 
mined.  We  first  commenced  playing  the  fiddle  and  piano 
together,  and  accorded  from  the  start.  Our  music  made  others 
merry,  and  we  had  a  little  side-show  of  happiness  to  ourselves; 
and  although  now  thirty-five  years  have  sped  since  our  union, 
I  keep  up  my  fiddling  with  an  harmonious  accompaniment 
from  this  dear  old  girl,  and,  if  spared,  hope  to  keep  attuned  to 
our  golden  wedding. 

I  felt  from  the  first,  in  this  campaign,  that  I  was  master  of 
the  situation,  and  talked  out  my  love  like  a  little  man;  and  my 
love  listened  to  me  lingeringly,  and  like  the  fellow  who  had  no 
heart  to  refuse  a  drink,  gave  me  her  hand  affectionately,  and 
referred  me  to  the  old  folks.  But  didn't  I  feel  good  then. 
How  I  stepped  around  the  streets  of  Anderson  next  day.  I 
stood  so  straight  in  my  boots  that  I  sorter  leant  back.  The 
girl  was  mine,  and  I  didn't  care  who  knew  it.  I  thought  of 
my  first  failure  and  how  greatly  I  had  improved  upon  that 
effort,  how  nice  I  had  done  up  this  job,  and  that  I  was  no 
longer  to  be  classed  with  the  batchelor  dogs;  soon  to  be  a 
respectable  married  man,  the  prospective  head  of  a  family,  a 
man  of  responsibility  and  consequence,  and  no  telling  what 
the  future  might  have  in  store  for  me. 

The  greatest  trouble  I  now  had  to  contend  with  was  impa" 
tience.  I  didn't  want  to  wait.  The  little  lady  lacked  about 
two  years  of  finishing  her  education.  But  I  decided  it  would 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  133 

be  better  for  the  education  to  be  disappointed  than  me.  1 
wanted  the  girl,  and  wanted  her  quick — like  Judge  Bleckley 
wanted  the  earthquake  to  stop. 

Soon  after  her  vacation,  I  followed  her  to  her  home  on  the 
Saluda,  in  Edgefield  ;  got  off  the  railroad  at  Chappell's,  and, 
fortunately,  met  a  gentleman  taking  the  train,  who  kindly  ten 
dered  his  large  coach  and  baggage  cart  to  take  me  to  my  des 
tination,  as  it  was  near  the  route  home.  Some  time  after  dark 
had  set  in,  we  crossed  a  bridge  and  drove  up  a  long  rocky  lane 
approaching  the  mansion.  It  was  one  of  those  close,  sultry 
summer  evenings,  so  common  in  our  southern  climate,  and  the 
rattling  of  the  cumbersome  wheels  of  our  vehicles  seemed  to 
make  the  most  extraordinary  lumbering  noise.  «As  we  drew 
near  the  dwelling  I  observed,  in  the  lighted  windows,  numer 
ous  heads  poking  out,  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  unusual 
rumpus.  Our  caravan  halted  before  the  front  gate,  and  your 
writer  descended  and  walked  with  a  stately  tread  to  the 
entrance,  and  was  met  there  by  a  brother  of  my  intended.  I 
introduced  myself  and  announced  the  object  of  my  visit,  and, 
upon  invitation,  resolutely  moved  forward  into  the  parlor, 
filled  with  people.  A  single  glance  satisfied  me  that  I  had 
interrupted  their  evening  devotions.  A  reverential  old  gen 
tleman  was  peering  over  his  spectacles,  with  Bible  in  hand,  and 
beside  him  sat  another  old  gentleman,  who  I  decided  to  be  my 
future  father-in-law,  and  the  balance  of  the  company  to  be 
guests  and  members  of  the  family.  On  the  right,  I  discovered 
my  jewel,  greeted  her  warmly,  then  moved  aronnd  the  room 
with  my  usher,  bowing  in  the  most  gracious  manner  as  intro 
duced,  then  modestly  retired  to  a  seat  in  the  rear  of  one  cor 
ner  of  the  piano  and  listened  devoutly  to  the  family  service, 
scarcely  casting  a  glance  in  the  direction  where  my  eyes  es- 


134  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

pecially  desired  to  range.  The  service  over,  my  attention  was 
directed  to  two  young  ladies,  who  were  talking  in  an  under 
tone  and  casting  significant  glances  in  ray  direction ;  then 
heard  a  suppressed  giggle  as  a  servant  girl  placed  a  lamp  on 
the  corner  of  the  piano  so  as  to  shine  directly  in  my  face. 
Turning  suddenly  to  where  my  sweetheart  sat,  the  seat  was 
vacant ;  she  had  slipped  out.  Then  my  old  experience  recur 
red  in  all  its  original  force — deserted !  She  had  gone  back 
on  me;  and  now,  like  Peter,  I  lost  my  faith — all  my  prayers 
for  a  wife  wasted.  Right  then  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  or  the 
Lord  one  had  made  a  bad  mistake ;  and  to  complete  my  dis 
grace,  I  was  now  an  object  of  sport  for  those  two  young  ladies- 
It  was  too  much.  I  determined  to  forget  the  unfaithful  girl 
and  my  prayers,  and  to  leave  for  home  the  next  morning — even 
thought  of  hunting  another  roof  for  the  night ;  but  the  girls 
had  riled  me.  I  was  going  to  get  even  with  them  before  I 
left,  to  show  them  I  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  bug-eater  they  took" 
me  for ;  so  I  picked  up  my  chair  and  sat  down  right  in  front 
of  them  and  commenced  a  rattling,  don't-care  sort  of  confabu 
lation.  This  bold  act  brought  them  to  their  p's  and  q's,  and 
placed  them  on  the  defense.  Directly,  turning  around,  I^saw 
the  two  old  gentlemen  regarding  me,  as  I  thought,  with  critic's 
eyes,  and  feeling  just  like  I  didn't  care  what  corn  was  worth  a 
bushel,  moved  my  seat  and  tackled  them,  and  soon  had  the 
pleasure  of  thinking  I  had  paralyzed  the  whole  party,  and  was 
now  ready  to  vamose  the  ranche,  cursing  (in  my  mind)  the 
unreliability  of  the  entire  fair  sex. 

Just  about  this  condition  of  affairs  I  observed  a  handsome 
young  woman  tripping  in  the  parlor;  the  gay  deceiver  was 
making  for  me.  I  recognized  the  face  and  the  form  ;  was  she 
about  to  tell  me  to  git  up  and  git  ?  I  braced  myself  for  the 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  135 

coming  shock,  and  it  came,  but  not  as  I  expected,  for  she 
sweetly  invited  me  in  to  take  a  lunch.  I  had  forgotten  that  I 
had  no  supper.  She  sat  by  me  as  I  partook  of  her  hospitali 
ties  (both  she  and  her  mother),  and  as  I  was  satisfying  the 
inner  man  I  also  saw  through  the  millstone  and  wilted,  and  as 
my  ire  abated  so  did  my  glibness  of  speech.  It  got  real  hard 
hard  for  me  to  think  of  anything  at  all  to  say,  and  once  more 
recurred  to  me  my  old  time  predicament.  I  got  too  modest  to 
talk  of  love  that  night  and  retired  from  the  scene  under  con 
siderable  embarrassment,  but  got  all  right  next  morning  when  I 
learned  that  my  faithful  one  had  reserved  a  buggy  for  our 
especial  use  to  ride  to  church.  My  tongue  soon  recovered 
its  wonted  roll  and  I  remained  pleasantly  situated  for  several 
days.  In  fact,  I  felt  loth  to  leave  at  all,  but  my  embassy  was 
unfinished ;  I  wanted  to  secure  the  consent  of  the  old  folks. 
At  the  first  opportunity  I  invited  the  old  gentleman  to  take  a 
walk,  and  when  well  out  the  gate  he  asked  if  I  would  like  to 
see  the  crops.  I  answered  abstractedly  in  the  negative,  then 
he  proposed  the  meadows  and  the  stock.  I  answered,  "  No, 
sir,  not  on  this  occasion,  I  am  here  on  an  entirely  differ 
ent  business,  and  doubt  not,  sir,  you  have  already  guessed  the 
object  of  my  mission.  He  answered,  "that  it  was  not 
his  custom  to  guess  at  other  peoples'  business."  I  must 
have  looked  surprised,  but  frankly  told  him  what  I  had  come 
for,  and  how  gladly  I  would  receive  his  consent  to  my  suit. 
He  remarked  that  I  was  a  stranger  to  him  and  that  he  would 
like  to  be  better  informed  before  he  could  give  his  daughter  to 
a  stranger.  This  stumped  me,  but  only  for  a  moment.  I  pro 
posed  to  the  old  gentleman  to  go  home  with  me  and  investi 
gate,  but  he  made  the  objection  that  he  could  not  leave  his 
crops  for  the  present;  then  I  asked  him  which  was  of  the 


136  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

most  importance  to  him,  his  present  crops  or  the  happiness  of 
his  youngest  daughter ;  this  got  him,  and  he  went.  Now  I 
had  to  talk  to  the  old  lady,  and  managed  to  find  her  in  the 
parlor  early  next  morning,  so  brought  the  question  to  bear  at 
once;  but  she  said  she  wanted  her  daughter  to  learn  more 
about  the  responsibilities  of  housekeeping  before  she  married. 
I  told  her  I  had  an  old  mother  where  I  lived,  who  was  the  best 
in  the  world  about  that.  She  then  remarked  very  positively 
that  her  daughter  was  too  young  to  marry ;  but  I  was  posted 
and  asked  the  old  lady  how  old  she  was  when  she  married' 
and  this  was  a  sockdolager.  Then,  as  a  concluding  remark,  she 
was  not  willing  to  give  her  daughter  up ;  but  I  spiritedly  told 
her  that  was  exactly  my  fix,  that  I'd  die  before  I'd  give  her 
up ;  then  the  old  lady  fled,  and  I  never  did  get  her  consent. 

But  I  took  the  old  gentleman  home  with  me,  and  he  and  my 
parents  consulted  together  over  the  matter,  and  after  the 
caucus  had  been  held  I  was  summoned  to  the  parlor.  My 
father  was  the  speaker ;  he  stated  that  the  matter  had  been 
fully  discussed  between  them  and  had  been  decided  in  my 
favor,  but  that  they  had  all  agreed  that  it  was  best  to  postpone 
the  marriage  for  two  years  longer  and  allow  the  young  lady 
an  opportunity  to  finish  her  education  ;  then  I  kicked,  kicked 
the  tea  overboard.  I  took  exactly  the  position  the  confed 
eracy  took  toward  the  federal  government,  seceeded,  positively 
refused  to  accept  the  amendment,  called  for  the  previous 
question,  and,  like  Tom  Reid,  counted  the  votes  all  my  own 
way.  I  firmly  stated  to  my  seniors  that  the  time  was  irre 
vocably  "sot,"and  we  were  of  the  opinion  that  as  we  were  the 
parties  mostly  interested  that  our  decision  was  a  matter  of 
much  consideration,  and  we  carried  out  our  programme.  The 
dear  old  folks  against  whom  I  rebelled  have  long  since  gone  to 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  137 

the  better  world,  and  we  are  whacking  along  here  yet  through 
the  rough  lanes  of  life,  and  have  had  many  ups  and  downs, 
but  mostly  downs,  and  have  long  since  tried  to  learn  submission 
to  Him  who  hath  joined  us  together;  and  though  our  locks 
:ire  growing  whiter  each  day,  we  still  feel  young  and  fresh  in 
heart;  and  as  we  approach  the  shadowy  end,  are  filled  with  the 
hope  and  trust  that  though  we  shall  soon  leave  this  earthly 
scene  of  many  grievous  trials,  that  after  a  brief  separation  we 
shall  meet  again  and  continue  our  journey  together  through 
the  spacious  halls  of  eternity, 

"There  to  bnthe  our  weary  souls 
In  seas  of  heavenly  rest." 


138  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  | 


FALLING  OFF  A  MOUNTAIN. 


IN  front,  and  in  view  of  our  old  mountain  home  in  Fairfield 
Valley,  N.  C.,  stands  the  Rock  Mountain,  with  its  bare  walls 
rounding  up  a  thousand  feet  towards  the  sky  ;  on  its  summit 
is  an  extensive  area  of  ravines  and  ridges,  covered  with  the 
native  forest  tree,  and  used  to  be  a  favorite  tramping  ground 
for  the  deer,  and  I  have  killed  a  number  of  them  started  on 
this  mountain.  On  one  occasion  I  went  up  on  this  mountain 
to  hunt  alone,  except  my  dogs,  and  soon  a  deer  was  sprung, 
but  loth  to  leave  the  mountain,  it  played  around  ahead  of  the 
dogs.  I  was  slipping  along  trying  to  get  a  shot  when  I  saw  it 
coming  clipping  along  toward  me  where  I  had  stopped  not  far 
from  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  The  doe  discovered  me  too 
late  and  attempted  to  pass  between  me  and  the  precipice, 
when  I  fired  and  gave  it  a  mortal  wound.  To  my  astonish 
ment  the  wounded  deer  turned  abruptly  and  went  headlong 
down  into  the  abyss  below.  I  rushed  forward  to  the  brink  to 
peer  over  and  see  where  the  poor  thing  had  gone  down,  when 
to  my  horror  my  heel  slipped  and  over  I  went  after  the  deer. 
I  remember  closing  my  eyes,  for  I  knew  it  was  all  over  with 
me,  and  I  also  remember  as  I  started,  my  first  thought  was  of 
prayer  and  that  I  would  have  to  make  quick  work  of  it  too. 
I  think  I  had  got  about  as  far  as  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to 
sleep,"  when  I  brought  up  with  a  sudden  jerk  and  thought  I 
had  struck  the  bottom  and  was  a  dead  man,  but  in  a  moment 
reason  began  to  return  and  it  occurred  to  my  mind  that  I  had 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  139 

made  the  trip  too  quick.  Then  the  question  arose,  was  1  dead 
or  not?  whereupon,  I  opened  my  eyes  and  discovered  that  I 
was  alive  and  unhurt,  sitting  astride  a  clump  of  ivy  bushes 
that  grew  in  the  crevice  of  the  rock.  My  hat  had  gone  over 
after  the  deer,  but  I  was  sitting  safe  enough  astride  of  those 
blessed  bushes  with  my  gun  still  clutched  in  my  hand,  and 
looking  up  discovered  that  I  had  slid  down  about  fifteen  feet 
from  the  top  of  the  rock ;  hut  how  to  get  back  I  did  not  see. 
I  could  finish  the  trip  down  with  very  little  difficulty,  but  was 
not  willing  to  make  the  trip  voluntarily,  to  the  contrary  hugged 
the  rock  at  my  back  more  tenaciously ;  indeed  there  has  ever 
been  an  inclination  in  my  nature  to  ascend  rather  than  descend; 
though  in  actual  experience  I  believe  the  latter  has  been  my 
fate. 

But  the  all  important  question  with  me  now  was,  how  to 
get  out  of  that  place.  I  was  discontented,  was  dissatisfied  with 
my  position  in  life ;  I  wanted  to  resign  and  even  to  abandon 
the  position  without  a  formal  resignation.  Oh,  how  I  needed 
the  advice  and  aid  of  some  good  friend  just  then.  From  my 
sit-point  I  could  see  into  the  veranda  of  my  own  sweet  home 
(had  been  married  but  a  short  time).  When  in  great  trouble 
I  try  to  reason  as  well  as  pray — and  reason  as  methodically  as 
possible.  To  extricate  myself  from  this  terrible  imprison 
ment,  I  had  to  devise  some  method,  so  I  adopted  methodism 
unanimously,  and  began  to  shout  most  lustily ;  but  it  soon 
occurred  to  me  that  there  was  a  difference  between  the  Meth 
odist's  experience  and  mine,  for  they  claim  to  shout  when  they 
are  harpy,  and  I  felt  sure  I  was  not  happy ;  I  did  not  feel  the 
slightest  symptoms  of  happiness,  still  I  kept  on  shouting,  but 
it  was  no  go,  for  the  wind  was  against  me  and  I  could  not  make 
myself  heard.  I  continued  to  shout;  to  tell  the  truth,  I  yelled 


•[40  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AXD  N 

and  yelled  until  my  voice  broke  up  in  utter  hoarseness. 
I  saw  my  young  wife  corne  out  on  the  veranda  and  look 
towards  the  mountains,  as  if  expecting  to  hear  from  or  see 
me ;  and,  oh !  how  I  longed  to  be  there.  Home  never  looked 
sweeter  to  a  living  man  than  mine  did  to  me  then.  I  thought 
of  the  good  old  song,  "  Sweet  Home,"  and  tried  to  sing  it,  but 
had  got  too  hoarse  to  sing.  In  fact,  I  did  not  feel  much  like 
singing  anyhow.  After  awhile,  I  saw  my  darling  turn  and  go 
back  in  the  house;  then  a  feeling  akin  to  that  of  Mr.  Selkirk's 
took  possession  of  my  poor,  isolated  soul.  I  wanted  to  go 
home.  I  wanted  to  be  more  social ;  wanted  to  be  an  affection 
ate  husband,  a  good  democrat,  an  exemplary  Christian,  and  get 
something  good  to  eat;  but  the  unpleasant  fact  stared  me  in 
the  face  that  I  must  get  out  of  my  present  predicament  before 
I  could  do  or  get  anything.  My  wife  came  out  again  and 
looked  anxiously,  and  I  returned  the  look  with  double  com 
pound  interest  ;  but,  alas!  she  retired  again.  I  remained  in 
this  awful  position  three  weeks,  thirty-seven  days,  forty-two 
hours,  sixty-five  minutes  and  ninety  seconds  ( at  least  so  it 
seemed  to  me).  At  last  a  negro  man  named  Jim  came  into  the 
cove  below  to  get  white  oak  splits,  and  I  succeeded  in  making 
my  position  known  to  him.  I  dhected  him  to  come  around  to 
the  top  of  the  mountain  above  me  and  cut  a  long  pole,  with 
which  he  pulled  me  up  to  the  point  from  whence  I  started,  and 
was  thus  delivered  from  my  perilous  position.  My  deliverer 
was  Jim  Hacket,  one  of  our  slaves,  and  I  have  never  seen  the 
day,  from  that  time  till  now,  that  I  would  not  cut  my  tobacco 
right  in  tlie  middle  and  give  the  biggest  half  to  that  old 
darker. 


OB,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  141 


THE  ANXIOUS  ENQUIRER. 


the  surrender  at  Apporaatox,  I  returned  to  Edgefield, 
S.  C.,  where  my  wife  had  remained  during  the  war,  with 
her  father.  I  had  sold  all  the  property  I  possessed,  except 
negroes,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  invested  in  Confed 
erate  bonds;  now,  the  war  ended,  I  found  the  bonds  worthless 
and  the  negroes  free.  I  had  three  silver  watches,  $7.50  in 
silver  and  $15  in  greenbacks,  captured  from  the  enemy  when  I 
was  a  scout,  and  my  horse.  I  swapped  all  but  the  cash  for  a 
wagon  and  team  from  Johnson's  returning  soldiers,  and  moved 
with  my  little  family  to  Southwest  Georgia,  to  start  anew. 

I  bought  a  plantation,  with  outfit  complete — stock  and  im. 
plements — on  a  credit,  from  John  W.  Jordan,  Jr.,  near  Smith- 
ville,  in  Lee  county,  and  started  the  business  of  cotton  plant 
ing.  I  had  been  raised,  as  we  then  thought,  above  the  cotton- 
belt;  although  my  father  used  to  plant  several  patches  of  cot 
ton,  I  knew  nothing  of  its  culture.  I  had  sold  out  a  splendid 
stock  farm,  to  go  to  the  war,  and  my  teaching  had  been  to 
raise  grass  and  not  to  destroy  it. 

In  starting  a  new  business,  I  thought  the  best  way  to  get 
at  it  was  to  obtain  all  the  information  possible  of  the  modus 
operandi  of  planting  cotton,  and  so  set  myself  to  work  visit 
ing  and  pumping  my  neighbors  for  the  coveted  information. 
I  made  frequent  visits  to  the  Wellses,  Jordans,  Jenningses, 
Jays,  Aliens,  Birds,  Kosses,  etc.,  and  as  Lena  Jay  (who  was 
considered  a  crack  cotton  planter)  remarked,  got  everybody's 


142  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

opinion  then  turned  around  and  done  as  I  durned  pleased. 
There  was  a  scarcity  of  cotton-seed  in  the  country,  and  difficult 
to  secure  even  at  a  high  price,  and  it  had  become  to  me  a 
question  of  great  perplexity. 

One  Sunday,  I  went  with  my  family  to  spend  the  day  with 
Mr.  William  Wells,  and  found  there  quite  a  number  of  neigh 
boring  planters.  We  were  all  sitting  out  on  the  front  veranda, 
and,  as  usual,  I  was  spunging  out  of  the  party  all  the  informa 
tion  I  could  get,  when  that  scamp  I  referred  to  before,  Lem 
Jay  (and  who  had  seen  me  the  day  before  setting  out  cabbage 
plants)  remarked  that  he  thought  he  could  put  me  on  to  a 
plan  that  would  interest  me.  He  said  that  Mr.  Jule  Bird,  a 
neighbor  and  very  large  planter,  had  a  great  deal  of  cotton 
already  up,  that  it  had  come  up  very  thick,  and  he 
would  commence  chopping  it  out  to-morrow,  and  had  no  doubt 
that  Mr.  Bird  would  take  great  pleasure  in  furnishing  me  all 
the  plants  I  might  want,  free  of  charge.  Mr.  Bird  was  present 
and  said  it  would  afford  him  great  pleasure  to  do  so,  and  that 
I  would  be  welcome  to  all  I  wanted.  I  expressed  unbounded 
gratitude  to  the  gentlemen  for  their  kindness,  and  was  about  to 
make  a  little  speech  of  thanks  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
several  roguish  looking  winks  sliding  around,  and  stopped  sud 
denly  short,  as  I  smelt  the  fumes  of  a  dead  rat,  when  there 
followed  a  general  explosion  of  risibles  at  my  expense;  but  full 
amends  were  made  by  their  assistance  to  procure  the  necessary 
cotton-seed.  One  day  I  called  on  my  neighbor  John  W.  Jor 
dan,  Sr.,  and  had  plied  him  with  many  questions  on  the  cotton" 
making  business,  and  finally  asked  him  how  many  bales  he 
thought  I  ought  to  make  this  year.  He  surveyed  me  sol 
emnly  from  head  to  foot  replying  that  he  could  not  tell 
me  how  many  I  ought  to  make,  but  if  I  made  airy  bale  he 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  143 

would  be  mightily  surprised.  The  shock  was  a  severe  one  to 
me,  but  I  had  the  pleasure  of  beating  the  old  gentleman  that 
very  year;  and  I  think  he  was  sorry  for  the  joke  afterward, 
when  he  found  out  that  I  was  the  son  of  his  first  sweetheart, 
whom  he  had  very  earnestly  courted  in  his  younger  days. 

I  was  greatly  puzzled  when  my  cotton  commenced  blooming 
to  find  both  white  and  red  blossoms  on  the  same  stalk  at  the 
same  time ;  why  one  should  be  red  and  the  other  white,  I 
could  not  get  at  the  philosophy  of  it;  the  chemical  action 
on  the  part  of  nature  I  could  not  quite  understand.  This 
brought  another  good  laugh  from  my  neighbors,  and  the  dis 
covery  to  myself  that  I  had  gone  off  in  this  instance  half 
cocked,  for  had  I  waited  and  observed,  would  have  learned 
that  the  blossom  is  white  the  first  day  and  red  the  next. 

But  here's  another  rigid  joke.  One  day  I  was  sitting  on  the 
fence  watching  my  hands  hoe  cotton,  when  a  stranger  to  me 
drove  up  and  alighting  from  his  buggy  took  a  seat  beside  me 
and  commenced  conversation  (the  whole  thing  *vas  a  put  up 
job).  After  awhile  he  said  he  had  been  driving  around 
through  every  part  of  the  country  and  had  never,  in  all  his 
,'ife,  seen  such  grassy  crops  (it  had  been  a  very  rainy  season); 
but  he'd  bederned  if  I  wasn't  considerably  worse  off  than  any 
body  he  had  yet  seen.  This  hit  me  heavy,  for  I  thought  I  was 
ruined,  and  as  soon  as  the  man  left  I  got  a  hoe  and  let  in  and 
whooped  up  the  darkies  and  got  rid  of  the  grass,  but  the  unac 
customed  exertion  cost  me  a  spell  of  fever.  I  made  one  of 
the  best  crops  to  ray  force  in  Lee  County,  that  year,  and  fully 
established  myself  as  a  cotton-planter. 

Now  for  the  benefit  of  despairing  humanity  I  will  tell  an 
anecdote  on  a  Lee  County  young  man,  who,  at  the  time  of 
which  we  have  been  talking,  was  my  neighbor  farmer;  our 


144  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  J 

places  joined  and  when  I  left  that  country,  left  him  there. 
Some  years  after,  I  came  down  to  Atlanta  from  Norcross  an  d 
met  my  former  neighbor  on  the  street.  He  informed  me  that 
he  had  just  arrived  in  the  city  and  had  come  here  to  practice 
law.  I  was  astonished  and  asked  him  what  he  knew  about 
law.  He  said  he  had  busted  farming  and  had  taken  to  law ; 
had  been  studying  it  for  a  few  months,  and  asked  my  opinion 
as  to  what  I  thought  of  his  chances  in  Atlanta.  I  gave  him 
my  opinion  candidly  and  in  a  flat-footed  manner.  I  told  him 
these  Atlanta  lawyers  were  a  sharp  set,  and  the  chances  for  a 
country  fellow  who  had  come  to  a  great  city  with  a  smatter 
ing  of  law  was  about  as  slim  as  anything  I  had  ever  seen.  H!s 
face  lengthened  out  as  I  talked  to  him,  and  finally  he 
exclaimed :  "  I  am  obliged  to  succeed  ;  I've  got  nothing 
but  a  family,  and  it's  a  "ground  hog  case."  and  stamping  his 
foot  in  a  resolute  manner,  said  :  "  I  am  obliged  to  succeed." 
Then  I  said,  Bob,  if  it  has  come  to  that,  go  ahead  and  maybe 
you  will;  "where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way  ;"  and  if  you 
are  obliged  to  do  it,  you  will.  That  same  fellow  is  familliarly 
known  to  almost  everyone  in  the  city  to-day  as  Bob  Jourdan, 
and  one  of  its  most  popular  lawyers. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  145 


HOW  I  GOT  RID  OF  PRICE  ALBERT. 


KIiiAK  the  famous  Cashier's  Valley,  in  the  Blue  Ridge  moun 
tains  of  North  Carolina,  and  two  miles  across  a  gap, 
nestles  as  lovely  a  little  spot  as  this  noted  range  can  show, 
Fairfild  Valley,  resembling  a  great  ampitheater,  with  its  lofty 
blue  rock  walls  surrounding. 

Here  rny  father's  family  used  to  spend  their  summers,  and 
here  I  afterwards,  with  my  uncle,  J.  T.  Hackett,  ran  a  stock 
farm  and  a  summer  hotel.  We  raised  cattle,  hogs,  sheep  and 
mules.  Among  other  animals,  we  owned  an  imported  jack 
named  Prince  Albert,  that  cost  eight  hundred  dollars.  After 
a  while  the  confederate  war  came  on,  and  we  had  to  abandon 
this  lovely  home,  and  went  as  volenteers  to  fight  our  country's 
battles.  We  sold  out  every  thing  except  this  especial  ani- 
inule.  Not  being  able  to  find  a  purchaser  for  his  royal  high 
ness,  I  sent  him  down  to  Edgfield,  S.  C.,  and  boarded  him  out 
during  the  war,  and  when  the  war  was  ended  moved  to  South 
west  Georgia.  Still  not  being  able  to  dispose  of  the 
prince,  I  transported  him,  at  considerable  expense,  to  my  new 
home,  where  he  became  not  only  a  considerable  expense,  but  a 
nuisance  to  the  whole  neighborhood.  He  would  not  bear  im 
prisonment,  either  by  fences,  bars  or  gates.  Not  satisfied  with 
injury  to  my  own  property,  he  committed  depredations 
on  my  neighbors.  The  more  Itiied  to  sell  him,  the  more  I 
couldn't  do  it.  Finally  I  tried  to  give  him  away ;  couldn't 


146  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

even  do  that,  and  indeed  this  jackass  problem  had  become  one 
of  great  anxiety  and  gloom  to  me. 

One  day  I  had  my  hands  near  the  public  road,  raising  some 
timbers  to  build  a  carriage  house,  when  I  beard  a  halloa  out  at 
the  road.  I  turned  and  saw  a  solitary  horseman  halted  in  the 
highway.  He  called  to  me  in  the  most  beseeching  tones,  and 
said  :  "My  friend,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  step  this  way,  just 
for  a  moment."  'He  seemed  in  great  distress,  so  I  ordered  the 
boys  to  stop  work  till  I  returned.  As  I  approached,  the  man 
reached  out  his  hand  and  grasped  mine,  saying  :  "My  friend* 
I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of  you;  do  not  deny  me;  I  am  suffering.'' 
I  asked,  "  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?"  (feeling  my  heart  melt 
ing  toward  the  poor  fellow.)  He  continued :  "  My  good  friend 
I  have  been  riding  alone  for  hours  down  this  lonesome  old 
'  Bond's  Trail.'  I  have  not  met  or  seen  a  human  face,  and  I 
am  under  a  most  sacred  vow.  I  have  sworn  never  to  take 
a  drink  of  spirits  by  myself,  and  I  have  in  my  saddle-bags 
•some  of  the  best  old  peach  brandy  you  ever  wet  your  lips 
with.  I  want  you  to  take  a  drink  with  me ;  please  don't 
refuse,  for  I  feel  I  cannot  stand  it  any  longer."  The  favor 
seemed  so  small  and  the  self-denial  on  my  part  so  insignifi 
cant,  that  I  complied  with  his  request.  Then  he  took  the  bot 
tle,  and  a  goodly  portion  of  its  contents  went  down  his  thirsty 
throat.  I  then  offered  him  my  hand  and  wished  him  a  pleas 
ant  journey  on  his  way;  but  he  held  my  hand,  and  pleadingly 
said:  "My  dear  friend,  don't  go  yet;  just  one  more,  please." 
I  took  the  flask  and  turned  it  up  to  my  lips,  as  if  I  intended  to 
take  another,  and — did,  then,  after  watching  him  gurgle  down 
swallow  after  swallow,  begged  to  be  excused,  as  my  hands 
were  waiting  for  me,  and  again  bid  him  Godspeed  on  his  way, 
when  he  cried  out:  "Oh,  my  dear  friend,  my  good  friend,  just 


OB,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  147 

one  more  before  we  part.     His  tone  was  one  of   abject  en 
treaty,  and  to  get  rid  of  the  man,  I  smiled  once  more  with 
him,  and  said,  "good-bye,  good-bye,  sir."     As   I  walked   off, 
he  watched  me  regretfully,  hailed  me  again,  and  said :   "  I, 
say,  my  friend,  have  you  got  anything  to  trade?"      I  stopped, 
as  my   troublesome   mule    flashed    across  my  mind,  and    an 
swered,  "Yep,  sir,  I  have  a  very  fine  jack  that  I  would  like 
to  trade."     He  said,  "  bring  him  out,"  at  the  same  time  draw 
ing  another  flask;   then  handing  me  a  watch  and  chain,  he 
added,  "I  will  give  you  this  for  him."     I  did  not  take  time 
to   examine   the  trinkets,  but  called  to  a  boy  to  bring  out 
Prince  Albert.      The   ti-ade    was  confirmed    without   further 
talk,  he  only  requesting  that  I  let  the  boy  go  a  mile  or  so,  to 
get  the  prince  well  started.      I  ordered  the  boy  to  go  with 
him  twain.     Before  starting,  however,  he  took  my  hand,  and 
said:  "My  friend,  my  benefactor,  as  long  as  my  life  lasts,  I 
shall  feel  grateful  for  your  kindness  to  a  dying  stranger.     I 
was  athirst  and  you  helped  me  to  drink.     I  will  never  forget 
you ;  I  shall  cherish  your  memory  as  that  of  a  friend  in  my 
time  of  need,  and  now,  in  this  parting  moment,  perhaps  for 
ever,  favor  me  just  once  more."     I  favored  him,  and  thus  we 
parted.     I  watched  him  and  Prince  Albert  go  down  that  long 
lane  until  they  passed  beyond  my  sight.     I  have  never  heard 
of  either  of  them  since,  but  have  often  hoped  that  both  were 
doing  well. 

1  found  both  watch  and  chain  to  be  good  gold,  and  traded 
them  for  a  fine  horse;  and  since  that  jackass  trade,  I  have 
concluded  that  there  is  always  some  hope,  even  under  the 
most  adverse  circumstances  and  the  gloomiest  out-look. 


148  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW, 


THE  PROPHETIC  SPEECH. 


ADDRESS  DELIVERED  BY  D.  U.  SLOAN,  BEFORE  THE  EARLY 
COUNTY,  GA.,  AGRICULTURAL  SOCIETY,  JULY,  1874. 


hA  R.  PRESIDENT,  LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN — This  large  and 
respectable  audience  is  encouraging,  and  is  proof  that 
"there  is  life  in  the  old  land  yet."  The  presence  of  so  many 
ladies  inspires  fresh  hopes  for  this  society.  Mr.  President,  I 
discern  that  your  benign  face  wears  a  more  congenial  glow, 
your  eyes  scintillate  with  gleams  of  returning  youth,  as  from 
your  elevated  perch  you  gaze  admiringly  upon  the  fair  forms 
that  surround  you.  Our  Secretary,  too,  appears  more  sprightly, 
while  from  his  humbler  position  he  steals  the  furtive  glance, 
delighted  that  his  earnest  effort  to  induce  their  presence  has 
been  crowned  with  success. 

Brethren  of  the  plow,  do  we  not  all  feel  happier  for  the 
presence  of  these  fair  friends  in  or  midst?  May  they  con 
tinue  to  come- and  cheer  us  with  their  smiles  of  approval,  and 
help  us  to  promote  the  great  cause  of  agriculture.  And, 
ladies,  please  pardon  me  if  I  remind  you  of  your  great  rspon- 
sibility  in  life,  for  in  all  the  annals  of  history,  from  the  first 


Ofc,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  149 

fair  maid  of  Edenville,  through  the  tedious  chronicles  of  gen 
erations,  till  you  come  to  the  mother,  the  better-half,  or  the 
absorbing  sweetheart  of  the  present  day,  and  behold  your 
potent  influence  over  the  so-called  lords  of  creation,  for  weal 
or  woe;  and  while  the  unhappy  experience,  the  lamentable 
difficulty,  of  the  first  sweet  girl,  in  the  primitive  garden 
about  the  fruit,  may  serve  as  a  gentle  reminder,  yet  remem 
ber  your  influence  for  good  or  evil  is  not  abated  one  jot  or 
tittle.  Ladies,  ever  encourage  the  worthy  enterprises  of  your 
infatuated  admirers;  frown  down  by  your  absence  all  their 
evil  works,  and  so  shall  you  truly  become  the  good  angels  of 
deliverance  to  your  less  refined  and  more  obdurate  com 
panions  of  earth. 

Mr.  President,  I  have  neither  the  disposition  nor  the  infor 
mation  to  discuss  the  science  of  agriculture,  and  will  leave 
such  work  for  wiser  heads  than  mine.  I  only  propose  to  offer 
a  few  general  ideas  on  subjects  of  vital  importance  to  the 
class  of  men  who  earn  their  bread  "by  the  sweat  of  the  face," 
and  as  the  great  Mr.  Greeley  should  have  said,  I  want  to  tell 
you  what  little  I  know  about  farming. 

]Ur.  President  and  brother  "  crappers,"  as  sure  as  I  stand 
before  you  to-day,  without  hesitation  or  reservation,  without 
fear  of  successful  contradiction,  and  in  all  the  solemnity  of 
truth,  I  feel  constrained  to  state  that  the  noble,  the  wonderful, 
the  glorious  profession  of  agriculture  has  nearly  "busted" 
your  humble  orator,  "enduring  the  last  few  craps."  But,  sir, 
I  believe — and  1  find  much  comfort  in  the  thought — that  all 
hope  is  not  yet  with  me  fled,  for  I  believe  the  right  kind  of 
farming  can  be  made  profitable.  Sir,  your  eloquent  speaker 
of  last  month  told  us  how  he  had  come  to  grief  agriculturally. 
He  gave  us  a  graphic  description  of  the  romantic  castles  he 


ISO  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    tf OW  5 

had  constructed  in  the  azure  skies  of  paper  calculation  ;  told 
us  of  his  fond  devotion  to  that  gay  coquet,  Miss  Delila  Cot 
ton,  and  how  he  had  been  blinded  by  her  charms  and  had 
yielded  to  her  fascinations;  how  he  had  tripped  the  fantastic 
toe  with  her  in  the  mazy  dances  of  fortune,  whirled  with  her 
in  the  dizzy  waltzes  of  speculation,  gyrated  in  the  polkas  and 
highland  flings,  cut  pigeon-wings,  and  went  through  all  the 
fancy  steps  of  anticipation,  and  how  the  heartless  flirt  had 
tantalized  him  with  false  hopes  and  at  last  had  cruelly  deserted 
him — flung  him  off:  and  then  he  told  us  that  his  eye-teeth 
were  now  cut.  Ah  !  brethren,  brethren,  how  many  of  us  have 
had  our  poor  pates  lured  into  this  same  false  Delila's  lap,  and 
have  been  deceitfully  shorn  of  our  precious  locks,  and  awoke 
only  to  find  our  former  strength  departed ;  and,  alas !  how 
many  of  our  noblest  sires,  too,  like  yours,  Mr.  President, 
frosted  with  the  experience  of  many  crops,  have  been  capti 
vated  by  her  smiles  and  made  her  willing  dupes. 

'Tis  said  that  "there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which, 
when  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune."  That  fortune, 
my  brethren,  has  not  ebbed  in  on  the  flood-tide  of  cotton 
which  is  surely  drifting  us  into  poverty. 

But  it  is  human  to  err.  Let  us  give  over  the  wild  chase — 
cease  to  follow  the  will-o'-the-wisp;  let  us  go  back  to  good  old 
Uncle  Corn  once  more,  and  to  our  more  reliable  country  cous 
ins,  the  Misses  Oats,  Peas  and  Pumpkins.  We  know  their 
friendship ;  'tis  tried  and  true. 

Look  around  us  and  behold  the  common  wreck.  Debt  and 
bankruptcy  are  sinking  the  hearts  of  men  into  the  dark  and 
turbid  waters  of  despondency.  Where  are  the  honest,  joviaj 
faces  we  were  wont  to  see  in  days  of  yore?  Gone  glimmer 
ing  among  the  things  that  were,  and  in  their  stead  we  see,  at 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW;  151 

every  turn,  the  longated  visage,  the  downcast  eye,  and  the 
pendant  under-jaw.  Ask  for  the  trouble  and  they  will  tell 
you  the  old  and  too  familiar  story — had  an  attack  of  cotton 
on  the  brain.  The  awful  epidemic  had  seized  them,  like  some 
thousand-legged  nightmare,  stagnated  their  blood  and,  like 
grirn  death,  pinned  them  down,  and  the  future  offered  no 
hope.  But  occasionally  you  meet  a  contented  face.  Ask  how 
so — how  have  you  escaped  the  general  ruins — and  he  will 
answer:  "Well,  sir,  I  raise  my  home  supplies;  I  never  go  in 
debt;  every  year  I  make  a  little  above  my  own  needs,  and 
to  these  fellows  who  raise  all  cotton,  why  I  sell  them  some 
thing  to  eat.  sir."  And  hereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Let  the  farmer  give  his  first  attention  to  home  supplies,  fill 
his  home  with  comforts  and  contentment,  then  let  the  chords 
that  support  the  Wall  street  rigging  snap  asunder.  Let  the 
main  masts  and  money  kings  topple  and  tumble;  let  financial 
panics  and  crises  come.  Amidst  the  crash,  the  self-sustain 
ing  farmer  will  float  serene ;  with  barn  and  store-house  well 
filled,  he  can  snap  his  fingers  and  whistle  Dixie. 

There  is  a  terrible  hydra-headed  monster  on  the  rampage 
throughout  our  land.  A  merciless  dragon  of  consumption, 
his  trail  is  marked  with  wan  despair,  and  like  a  besom  of 
destruction,  he  sweeps  the  country.  His  name  is  debt.  The 
people  know  him,  fear  and  tremble  in  his  presence,  yet  madly 
rush  into  his  very  track.  Loans  and  liens  are  his  daily  diet. 
The  ever  insatiate  beast,  with  hungry  jaws  crammed  with  cot 
ton  bags,  still  cries  for  more  and  more;  and  his  infatuated  vic 
tims  hurl  the  overburdened  commodity  into  his  throat — and 
are  frequently  swallowed  up  themselves.  Is  there  no  deliver 
ance?  Yes,  thank  God,  a  few  wise  men  have  seen  a  star.  A 
saviour  has  been  found;  an  angelic  song  has  been  heard,  pro- 


152  OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED. 

claiming  peace  and  good  will  to  the  tiller  of  the  soil.  His 
name  is  Cash,  and  common  sense  catches  up  the  strain,  and 
chimes  along  the  farms,  pay  up,  pay  up  as  you  go. 

Mr.  President,  I  believe  it  is  the  farmer's  true  policy,  if  he 
can't  run  ten  plows  on  the  cash  salvation  plan,  to  come  down 
to  five,  or  two,  or  even  one;  and  if  he  can't  make  the  riffle 
with  one,  then  to  quit  the  business,  or  hire  out  to  some  man 
or  woman  who  does  business  on  that  plan.  If  he  can't  work 
fifty  acres  well,  then  ten;  if  he  can't  pay  cash  for  his  fertil 
izers,  then  save  what  he  can  from  his  barn-yard,  plow  deeper 
and  cultivate  better.  If  the  Dixons  and  Wothens  can  make 
from  three  to  five  bales  per  acre,  why  should  we  put  up  with 
one  bale  for  from  three  to  five  acres?  Brother  Mulligan  said 
muscle  and  brain  were  needed,  and  he  is  right  about  it.  The 
fault  is  with  us.  If  our  patches  are  not  just  what  we  want 
them  to  be,  we  must  make  them  so.  Our  Creator  has  done 
his  part,  and  left  it  to  man  to  develop  the  hidden  resources 
stored  away  in  nature's  labyrinthean  recesses ;  earth,  air  and 
water,  all  are  teeming  with  material  to  supply  the  wants  of 
man. 

Necessity  has  been  called  the  mother  of  invention,  and  the 
direst  necessity  often  produces  the  most  beneficial  results; 
and  who  knows,  brethren,  but  that  the  very  difficulties  which 
now  encompass  us  may  be  fraught  with  some  great  blessing  to 
the  tillers  of  the  soil.  We  have  gotten  into  a  fog;  we  must 
arouse  to  a  sense  of  our  danger,  and  with  strong  hands  steer 
clear  of  the  disastrous  rocks  of  debt,  too  much  cotton,  and 
poor  culture. 

Mr.  President,  I  believe  more  profit  can  be  realized  from 
ten  acres  well  cultivated  than  from  fifty  in  the  ordinary  way, 
thereby  both  lessening  the  cost  of  production  and  increasing 


OR,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  153 

the  profits  of  the  form,  besides  the  improvement  of  the  prop 
erty  ;  and  if  my  proposition  is  correct,  then  cash  and  high 
culture  are  the  true  finger-boards  to  successful  farming,  as  all 
will  agree.  Why  not  adopt  the  plan  at  once?  There's  the 
rub.  How  to  get  at  it  is  the  thing.  Some  are  so  deeply  in 
debt  that  they  think  they  can  not  adopt  the  cash  plan;  and  so 
many  a  poor  sinner  wants  to  believe  in  the  Saviour,  but  hesi 
tates  to  lay  hold  on  the  salvation  plan,  still  delays  and  tries  to 
work  himself  into  a  more  acceptable  state  with  his  God,  but 
only  succeeds  in  heaping  sin  upon  sin  on  his  poor  soul.  And 
the  planter,  in  trying  to  get  out  of  debt  by  going  in  debt,  is 
getting  in  deeper  all  the  while.  The  present  southern  farmer 
has  to  be  regenerated — to  be  born  again — to  go  to  his  cred 
itor,  like  the  sinner  does  to  his  Saviour,  give  up  all  he  has,  if 
necessary,  and  start  a  new  and  better  life. 

I  believe,  sir,  farming  can  be  made  to  pay;  I  think  we  have 
cause  for  encouragement  if  we  can  profit  by  past  experience, 
and  appreciate  the  lights  before  us;  and  what  avocation  is 
there  in  life  more  desirable  than  farming,  what  occupation  can 
afford  more  attractions,  what  more  free  and  independent,  and 
where  on  earth  ought  woman,  the  true  wife  and  mother,  to 
find  more  real  happiness,  where  more  contentment  than  as 
mistress  of  some  good  farmers  household? 

The  farmers  make  a  great  mistake  when  they  select  their 
dunces  for  the  plow  handles;  they  should  pick  their  brightest 
boys  for  the  farm,  and  put  the  fools  somewhere  else.  They 
may  fill  some  other  place,  but  the  farm  never.  It  requires  as 
much  brain  to  conduct  the  farm  successfully  as  it  does  to  leg 
islate  in  the  halls  of  congress.  A  farmer  ought  to  understand 

o  o 

all  the  requirements  and  deficiences  of  his  soil — to  be  familiar 
with  the  agricultural  experience  and  improvements  of  the 


154  *fftE    FOGY   DAYS    AJfD   NOW  \ 

world.  He  ought  to  be  an  expert  even  on  the  rostrum,  for  I 
believe  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  he  will  control  this 
great  government.  He  holds  the  balance  of  power  in  his  bal 
lot,  has  the  biggest  share  of  brains,  and  only  needs  the  culture. 
Cultivate  him  and  he  will  take  his  true  position  in  the  world, 
and  then  he  will  frame  laws  to  protect  himself,  and  advance 
the  cause  of  agriculture,  and  wrest  from  the  cormonants  of  the 
country  his  rights,  which  so  long  have  been  trampled  upon, 
drive  the  money  grabbers  from  their  high  places,  and  save  the 
people  from  the  avaracious  craws  of  the  few,  and  then  the 
laboring  masses  will  get  their  dues. 

Mr.  President,  I  feel  like  I  believe  it  will  not  be  long  till  the 
daylight  will  begin  to  dawn  on  the  tiller  of  the  soil.  I  believe 
the  farmers  of  this  country  will  rise  in  their  might,  and  claim 
their  own.  I  think  I  can  discern  the  first  rays  of  the  morning 
light,  the  herald  of  the  coming  sunshine,  and  if  we  live  a  few 
years  longer,  Mr.  President,  we  may  see  it  rise  in  its  radiant 
glory,  and  our  chidren  may  see  it  ascend  higher  in  the  horizon 
of  intelligence  to  its  noon -tide  splendor,  till  its  fructifying  in 
fluence  shall  make  the  world  better  and  happier.  But  a  short 
time  since  we  first  heard  of  the  grange,  and  even  now  the 
name  is  scarcely  familiar  to  our  ears.  Their  power  unknown 
to  themselves — a  power,  though  in  its  infantile  experience  and 
ignorance,  that  is  yet  shaking  with  the  sound  of  its  voice  the 
very  heart  of  this  corrupt  government.  May  God  give  wisdom 
to  the  laborers  and  grant  that  their  combination  and  honest 
efforts  may  prove  an  ocean  of  blessings  to  this  country.  I 
know,  sir,  we  must  expect  our  share  of  the  ills  of  life.  Dark 
ness  has  hovered  over  our  recent  pathway,  but  I  believe  if  we 
will  have  it  so,  there  is  a  better  day  coming,  bless  the  Lord. 
Let  us  only  be  true  to  ourselves,  and  we  shall  bring  the  world 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  155 

to  our  feet.     We  have  the  elements  of  power;  let  us  cultivate 
the  brain. 

Now  a  word  in  conclusion.  I  maintain  that  a  farmer,  a 
granger,  cannot  fulfill  his  true  position  in  life  if  his  aspirations 
are  no  higher  than  to  grasp  the  perishable  of  this  world.  Man 
at  best  is  but  a  pilgrim  upon  earth,  and  but  for  a  season ;  is  on 
a  wearisome  and  hazardous  journey,  and  if  he  will  but  cast  his 
eyes  beyond  "this  vale  of  tears,"  he  will  find  it  is  "not  all  of 
life  to  live  or  all  of  death  to  die."  Solomon  tried  it  all,  and 
concluded  that  there  was  very  little  here  besides  vanity,  and 
about  the  best  thing  a  man  could  do  was  to  eat  and  drink 
what  God  allowed  him, 

Now  let  the  farmer  heed  the  commands  of  a  merciful  God, 
and  strike  only  for  his  just  rights,  which  he  has  not  by  many 
jugs  full  at  present,  abandon  all  inordinate  desire  for  greed 
and  gain,  and  his  home  may  be  made,  indeed,  a  place  of  con, 
tentment,  where  he  may  sing,  "home,  sweet  home,"  and  where 
it  may  be  felt  that  there  is  "no  place  like  home,"  and  when 
done  with  the  earth,  our  voices  may  be  attuned  to  a  higher 
sphere,  where  we  may  join  the  heavenly  choristers  in  the  ever 
lasting  home  of  homes.  Mr.  President  and  brethren  of  the 
plow,  I  offer  these  thoughts,  and  home  supplies  in  abundance 
recommend  the  cash  plan,  high  culture  both  of  land  and  brains 
stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  live  in  the  fear  and  admonition  of 
the  Lord,  and  I  guarantee  success  in  this  world,  and  a  far  bet 
ter  country  in  the  dim  mists  of  the  eternal  future. 


PROFESSOR  N.   F.  COOLEDGE, 

A  distinguished  educator;  born  in  Vermont;  came  to  Georgia  a  young  man;  first 
taught  school  at  Perry,  Ga. ;  became  famous  as  a  teacher  at  Cotton  Hill,  Ga. ; 
afterwards  taught  at  Dalton,  Canton  and  Norcross,  Ga.;  still  resides  at  the  latter 
place,  retired  from  business;  father  of  the  Cooledge  Bro's.,  of  Atlanta,  and  an 
earnest  working  Baptist;  has  been  one  of  Georgia's  best  teachers. 


THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ;  15U 


THE  UNEXPECTED  PREACH. 


AT  the  time  of  this  story,  our  home  was  in  Norcross,  Ga.,  on 
the  R  &  D.  R.  R.  One  of  the  most  venerable  and  useful 
citizens  of  this  town  was  Professor  N.  F.  Cooledge,  a  distin 
guished  educator,  and  an  earnest  Baptist;  a  fine,  portly  looking 
old  gentleman,  and  one  whose  appearance  would  attract  atten 
tion  anywhere. 

The  professor  and  I  made  a  trip  to  Gumming,  Ga.,  up  near 
the  mountains;  spent  the  night  there,  and  hearing  of  a  Bap 
tist  camp-meeting  across  the  Swanee  mountain,  concluded  we 
would  attend  on  the  morrow,  which  was  the  Sabbath.  So  in 
the  morning  we  ordered  out  our  conveyance  and  drove  over. 
Arriving  at  the  enterance  to  the  camp-grounds,  we  were  met 
by  several  clever  looking  countrymen,  who  had  our  horse 
cared  for  and  bestowed  on  us,  as  we  thought,  extraordinary 
hospitilaties.  We  were  invited  down  to  the  stand,  as  it  was 
about  time  for  the  morning  services.  Instead  of  entering  the 
aisle  at  the  front,  we  were  conducted  round  to  the  rear,  and 
before  we  were  aware  of  the  situation,  were  being  ushered  up 
into  the  pulpit.  We  remonstrated,  but  they  persisted,  and 
introduced  us  to  the  preacher,  who  had  just  risen  to  start  the 
opening  hymn.  We  were  seated,  one  on  the  right  and  the 
other  on  the  left  on  the  preachers'  bench,  and  left,  to  our  own 
reflections.  As  Brother  Pirkle  proceeded  to  line  out  his  hymn 
a  sudden  idea  struck  me  that  Professor  Cooledge  had  been 


160  OR,    THE    WORLHANGED. 

taken  for  a  preacher,  and  would  be  called  on  to  follow  Brother 
Pirkle.  It  was  too  good,  and  tickled  me  all  over.  I  knew 
the  professor  would  be  astonished,  taken  completely  by  sur 
prise,  and  in  my  imagination,  I  could  see  his  eyes  about  the 
size  of  saucers — had  to  pinch  my  thighs  severely  to  keep  from 
laughing  outright. 

Brother  Pirkle  finished,  and  turning  to  me,  said ;  "Brother 
Sloan,  you  will  follow  me."     This  shock  came  as  a  thunder 
bolt  from  a  clear  sky.      Such   a   turn   of   affairs   had    never 
entered  my  calculations.    I  half  arose,  completely  befuddled, 
saying,  "No,  sir ;  I — I — I — ,"  but  the  preacher  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  my  remark,  and  said,  "let  us  all  pray,"  I  knelt  at  my  seat, 
but  didn't  take  in  much  of  that  prayer  .     My  great  desire  was 
to  escape.     I  twisted  round  to  get  a  view  of  the  long  steps  we 
had  just  come  up.     Every  plank  was  packed  with  people,  and 
found  that  I  would  have  to  make  a  leap  of  at  least  fifteen  feet 
to  clear  their  heads,  to  get  to  the  woods.     I  raised  up  high 
enough  to  peep  over  the  pulpit  to  the  rear,  but  there  were 
rows  of  heads.     At  last  Brother  Pirkle  said  amen,  and  arose 
to  read  and  announce  his  text.     I  tried  to  attract  his  attention, 
but  in  vain  ;  my  tongue  seemed  to  be  paralyzed,  and  I  felt  as 
if  what  little  sense  I  had  ever  claimed,  had  departed.    I  did 
not  look   towards  Professor  Cooledge,  partly  from   a    guilty 
conscience,  and  did  not  care  to  catch  the  expression   of  pity 
and  anxiety  I  knew  to  be  upon  his  face,  in  my  behalf.     I  was 
in  a  predicament,  and  how  to  get  out  of  it  I  could  not  see.     In 
my  checkered  life,  I  had  faced  many  dilemmas  and  dangers.     I 
had  been  among  wild  Indians,  chased  on  the  plains  by  wolves 
on  a  burning  ship  in  the  midst  of  the  rolling  billows,   and  had 
passed  through  the  terrible  carnage  of  war.     I  remembered  in 
my  school-boy  days  the  relentless  rod  of  the  pedagogue,  the 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW;  161 

agony  of  early  manhood,  my  disappointment  in  love  ;  had 
passed  through  an  unusual  share  of  the  ups  and  downs  of  life, 
made  bad  speculations,  been  de-ad  broke,  but  in  the  whole  cat 
egory  of  my  tribulations,  I  could  think  of  nothing  so  embar 
rassing  as  this — for  me  to  preach  to  four  thousand  people,  and 
me  not  a  preacher.  There  seemed  no  way  out  of  it  but  con 
fusion  and  absolute  disgrace.  To  preach  to  a  camp -meeting, 
and  already  scared  most  to  death !  My  heart  thumped  against 
my  side,  my  legs  were  all  in  a  tremble,  and  I  felt  a  great  weak 
strain  down  my  back  bone.  Time  was  passing,  and  the  crisis 
approaching.  An  old  saying  flashed  across  my  mind,  that  a 
cornered  rat  will  fight  a  cat.  Then  I  thought  of  old  Preacher 
Dannelly  of  South  Carolina,  the  most  self-possessed  and  confi 
dent  looking  man  I  ever  saw,  except  Sam  Jones.  I  perused 
the  pluck  of  both  of  these  men,  and  it  helped  me.  I  knew 
something  "had  to  be  did,"  and  concluded  that  the  best  way 
out  of  the  ordeal  was  to  wade  right  through  the  fire.  1 
resolved  to  try  it;  reached  up  got  a  hymn  book,  selected  a 
number  and  turned  down  the  leaf,  listened  attentively  to  the 
sermon,  and  marked  in  my  memory  some  of  the  principal 
points.  After  a  time  the  preacher  finished,  and  turning  to  me> 
waved  his  hand  to  the  front.  I  arose  as  deliberately  as  my 
shaky  legs  and  yielding  back  would  allow,  and  leaning  with 
my  right  arm  on  the  book-board,  the  book  in  my  left  hand,  and 
for  a  moment  surveyed  the  sea  of  heads  around  me,  then  pro 
ceeded  to  line  out  the  song.  When  finished,  all  excitement 
had  vanished,  and  I  entered  the  skirmish  line  without  a  single 
feeling  of  my  former  terror.  I  complimented  the  able  sermon 
of  the  preacher,  commented  upon  the  unanswerable  points  of 
his  argument,  extenuated  upon  the  great  truths  advanced  by 
him  to  the  dying  sinner,  and  closed  my  ten  innutes  talk,  with 


162  OB,  THE  WOBLD  HAS  CHANGED. 

an  army  anecdote,  applicable  to  salvation,  then  turning  to  my 
left,  in  a  most  solemn  tone,  called  on  Brother  Cooledge,  to  lead 
in  prayer,  to  which  he  responded  in  the  most  efficient  manner. 
The  preacher  closed  the  service,  and  we  were  invited  to  a 
tent  to  dinner.  While  sitting  at  the  table,  a  couple  of  corn- 
mitteemen  came  in  and  announced  that  Brother  Sloan  had 
been  appointed  to  preach  the  evening  sermon.  Then  I  squealed, 
and  let  the  cat  out  of  the  wallet;  told  how  I  had  been  taken  in, 
and  that  I  was  no  preacher  at  all.  Of  course,  I  was  excused. 

The  professor  and  I  started  home  after  dinner.  We  had 
ridden  along  some  distance  in  silence  when  I  remarked,  "Pro 
fessor,  I  believe  you  are  about  as  deep  in  the  mire  as  I  am  in 
the  mud  ;  suppose  we  don't  say  anything  about  this  scrape 
when  we  get  home."  He  said  he'd  never  breathe  it. 

About  a  year  afterward,  two  young  lawyers  came  down 
from  Gumming  and  stopped  at  the  Norcross  Hotel.  I  was 
proprietor,  and  was  carving  at  the  dinner  table.  At  the  table 
also,  were  quite  a  number  of  Atlanta  guests.  The  two  young 
lawyers  seemed  to  be  having  a  side-show  of  fun  to  themselves. 
When  I  asked  them  to  divide,  give  the  public  the  benefit  of 
their  mirth  ;  they  asked  if  I  really  wanted  to  hear  the  joke.  I 
told  them  by  all  means  let  us  have  it,  when  George  Bell  waved 
his  hand  and  said,  "Brother  Sloan,  you  will  follow  me./'  and 
then  blurted  out  the  whole  story ;  and  to  make  matters  worse, 
my  wife  remarked  that  they  must  h.ive  kept  the  matter  very 
quiet,  as  she  had  never  heard  of  it  before.  I  had  to  grin  and 
bear  it  all,  and  became  more  than  ever  impressed  with  the  old 
adage  "  that  murder  will  out." 


THE  FOUY  DAYS  AND  NOW  I  163 


A  HISTORIC  HORN. 


the  Constitution:  "Mr.  D.  U.  Sloan,  of  the  National 
Hotel,  has  a  historic  horn,  and  on  being  asked  the  story 
connected  with  it,  furnished  the  following  sketch  : 

"  This  horn  has  been  in  my  possession  for  one-third  of  a 
century.  Notice  the  perforations  through  its  rim ;  see  how 
the  worms  have  eaten  it.  It  was  presented  to  me  by  a  man  I 
never  saw,  nor  heard  of  in  my  life  until  after  his  death,  and 
who  never  saw  or  heard  of  me.  His  name  was  Kirkpatrick, 
and  it  came  about  in  this  way :  Kirkpatrick  was  on  his  death 
bed,  and  said  to  his  friend  Strohecker,  of  Charleston,  who  was 
sitting  by  his  side  :  '  Strohecker,  there  hangs  a  horn.  I  have 
prized  it  much,  on  account  of  its  superior  tone.  The  delights 
of  the  chase  are  all  over  with  me.  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
sound  it  again.  Take  it,  and  give  it  to  some  good  hunter, 
for  me,  and  tell  him  I  bequeathed  it  to  him  as  a  dying  gift.' 
Strohecker  promised,  and  I  became  the  favored  one;  and  if 
departed  spirits  have  cognizance  of  what  happens  here  below, 
I  trust  the  old  hunter  may  be  satisfied  with  his  legatee. 

"I  have  winded  this  old  horn  in  many  a  hunt  on  the  Blue 
Ridge  mountains,  with  the  Hamptons,  Calhotins,  Haskells, 
Taylors,  and  many  others  of  South  Carolina's  noblest  sons.  I 
made  old  Charleston's  walls  ring  with  its  shrillest  notes,  on 


164  OK,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED. « 

that  memorable  evening  of  secession.  I  sounded  it  again,  on 
Atlanta's  hills,  for  Cleveland  and  democratic  victory,  and 
made  it  to  resound  with  lusty  blasts  on  the  triumphal  entry  of 
Jefferson  Davis  into  Atlanta.  I  was  a  secessionist,  and 
fought  for  what  I  believed  to  be  the  rights  of  my  country; 
and  though  a  reconstructed  rebel,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  com 
mitted  treason  against  the  federal  government.  If  so,  our 
fathers  of  the  revolution  did  the  same  thing.  The  same 
causes  existed,  but  God  gave  success  to  the  one  and  defeat  to 
the  other.  His  ways  are  inscrutabe,  and  we  know  '  he  doeth 
all  things  well.' 

"The  lost  cause  is  dead  and  buried.  I  revere  its  ashes,  and 
love  and  honor  the  grand  old  chieftain,  who  must  soon  go, 
too.  I  honor  the  old  hero,  because  he  never  faltered,  nor 
shrunk  from  what  he  believed  to  be  his  duty. 

"But  about  this  dear  old  horn.  I  shall  hope  to  sound  it 
again  in  1888,  for  Grover  Cleveland,  or  some  other  democratic 
president;  and  if  defeat  should  be  our  fate,  will  hang  it 
among  the  willows  for  another  and  more  propitious  day. 
Once  before  then,  however,  I  will  take  it  down  and  give  three 
blasts  for  our  next  governor,  John  B.  Gordon — a  name  irre 
sistible  to  every  son  of  Georgia,  and  to  every  boy  who  wore 
the  grey.  Respectfully, 

"D.  U.  SLOAN." 
"Atlanta,  Ga.,  May  30th,  1886." 

From  the  Atlanta  Capitol:  "This  morning  a  Capitol  re 
porter  stumbled  upon  an  item  that  will  be  read  with  interest, 
and  will  also  be  amusing.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Mr.  D. 
U.  Stone,  of  the  National  Hotel,  has  a  historic  horn,  which  he 
sounds  out  on  patriotic  occasions.  A  communication  ap 
peared  in  the  Constitution,  about  the  first  of  the  gubernato- 


THE    FOGY    I>AYS    AND    NOW:  1f> 

rial  campaign,  in  which  Mr.  Sloan  wound  up  by  saying  he 
would  sound  three  blasts  from  his  horn  for  Governor  John  B. 
Gordon.  He  has  received  the  following  postal  from  a  Bacon 
man : 

"  'ATLANTA,  GA.,  June  6th,  ISSli. 
'  Mr.  D.  TJ.  SLOAN  : 

'  Dear  Sir — I  have  read  with  much  interest  the  account  of  your 
historic  horn,  but  would  suggest  that  you  practice  on  it  from  the 
reverse  end,  as  you  will  have  to  blow  it  out  of  the  little  end,  for 
Gordon,  when  the  convention  meets.  As  I  am  a  private  citizen, 
arid  have  no  axe  to  grind,  have  clipped  my  name  from  this  card. 
'Yours  truly, 

'  Sloan's  reply,  through  the  Constitution  : 

'  MY  DEAR  UNKNOWN  FRIEND — Your  card  with  name  clipped  off 
is  received.  I  read  and  considered  its  contents,  and  thought, 
'Is  it  possible  that  I  am  mistaken;  shall  I,  indeed,  ever  blow  this 
good  old  horn  out  of  the  wrong  end  for  John  B.  Gordon,  the  soldier, 
the  statesman,  the  people's  man?'  While  thus  sadly  ruminating, 
I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice — a  whispered  voice.  I  turned  and  lis 
tened.  The  old  horn  was  trying  to  talk,  as  it  hung  above  my  head. 
With  bated  breath  I  listened,  and  these  are  the  words  I  caught: 
'  B-y-e-g-o-n-e,  b-e-g-o-n-e,  B-a-k-e-o-ri.'  I  arose  and  reversed  the 
ends — turned  the  right  end,  the  mouth-piece,  to  the  breeze  that 
played  through  my  open  window — and  the  words  changed  and  these 
are  the  sounds  I  heard  :  '  G-o-o-d-o-n-e,  g-o-o-n,  G-i-d-e-o-n  ;'  and  as 
a  stiffer  breeze  struck  the  right  end,  it  spake  out  distinctly,  'G-O  R- 
D-O-N,  G-0-R-D-O-N,  G-0-R-D-O-N.'  So,  my  dear  unknown 
friend,  do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  deceived.  This  is  not  only  an 
historic  but  a  prophetic  horn ;  for  even  as  your  name  was  clipped 
from  your  erring  card,  so  shall  the  wings  of  your  aspirant  be  clipped 
of  his  expectant  glory,  when  the  convention  meets,  for,  most  cer 
tainly,  I  shall  sound  the  three  prophetic  blasts  for  Gov.  Gordon. 
'Respectfully,  D.  U.  SLOAN.'" 


16()  OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED. 

From  the  Atlanta  Journal : 

"  During  the  immense  cheering,  and  great  excitement,  in  the 
gubernatorial  convention,  attendant  on  the  nomination  of  General 
Gordon,  there  rose  high  above  all  the  noise  and  din,  three  sharp 
clarion  notes  from  Sloan's  historic  horn.  In  a  moment  a  dead 
silence  reigned  for  a  brief  period,  and  was  broken  by  a  voice,  shout 
ing,  'That's  Sloan's  horn;  toother  again!'  then  the  cheering  was 
resumed  with  a  will  " 


FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW;  167 


DRIED  APPLE  CIDER. 


IN  a  previous  chapter,  I  stated  that  I  had  long  been  impressed 
with  the  idea  that  I  was  a  born  speculator,  and  although  my 
experience  in  life  had  been  sufficiently  disastrous  to  entirely 
explode  this  pet  theory  to  any  ordinary  practical  person;  yet,  I 
still  condoned  my  constant  reverses  with  the  excuse  that  I 
had  not  struck  it  right — had  not  struck  the  ebb  at  the  flood-tide 
that,  led  on  to  fortune,  and  with  unbroken  spirit  still  looked 
hopefully  and  fondly  to  the  future,  when  things  would  turn 
up  more  favorably,  and  even  now,  seemed  the  auspicious  time, 
and,  indeed,  in  this  dried-apple  business,  things  did  turn  up 
mightily,  but  not  in  accordance  with  my  pleasureable  anticipa 
tions,  and  turned  up  with  such  dynamic  force,  as  to  greatly 
shake  my  life-time  faith  as  to  my  birth-right  as  a  speculator. 
When  the  great  prohibition  movement  resulted  in  success,  I 
was  proprietor  of  the  National  Hotel,  and  one  of  my  frequent 
guests  and  warm  friends  was  a  Mr  Obediah,  who  owned  a  fine 
river  farm  near  Gainsville,  Ga.  There  he  cultivated  big 
apple  orchards  and  vineyards,  and  manufactured  oceans  of  vin 
egar,  and  sold  profitably  to  the  various  markets* 

One  day  Mr.  Obe  registered  at  the  desk,  and  I  noticed  a 
peculiar  cunning  twinkle  about  his  eye,  and  soon  he  had  me  off 
to  one  side  and  was  divulging  a  great  scheme —  the  result  of 
much  figuring  and  meditation — an  enterprise,  the  manufacture 


108  OR,    TftK    WORLD    HAS   CHANGED. 

and  sale  of  cider.  Prohibition  had  now  become  a  sealed  fact ; 
now  was  the  opportune  time;  the  people  couldn't  get  whiskey 
nor  beer  to  drink,  and  consequently  would  take  powerfully 
to  cider.  I  asked  where  the  apples  were  to  come  from,  at  this 
season,  to  make  the  cider.  He  gave  me  a  knowing  wink,  and 
answered,  "Dried  apples;  the  best  cider  in  the  world ;  equal  to 
champagne."  He  had  recently  bought  a  recipe  at  an  extrava 
gant  price,  which  would  keep  the  cider  sweet  indefinitely. 
Said  it  would  be  the  biggest  business  out ;  showed  the  im 
mense  profit  to  be  made,  and  said  he  had  selected  me,  as  the 
man  he  could  trust,  for  his  Atlanta  partner.  As  he  unfolded 
his  well  matured  plans,  I  saw  every  thing  plainly,  and  even 
more,  too,  than  he  had  yet  conceived.  The  firm  was  organized, 
and  the  duties  of  each  fully  agreed  and  understood.  Mr.  Obe. 
would  furnish  the  barrels  and  kegs,  and  manufacture  and  ship 
me  the  cider;  we  would  quietly  buy  up  all  the  dried  apples  on 
the  markets,  and  empty  bottles;  I  to  provide  delivery  wagons, 
and  the  necessary  help  for  the  sale  of  the  cider.  Our  plans  all 
arranged,  Mr.  Obe.  returned  home  to  manufacture,  and  I  to 
prepare  for  the  sale  and  delivery.  The  first  thing,  I  found  a 
large  quantity  of  dried  apples  at  Mr.  Shomo's,  bought  and 
shipped  them  to  the  factory;  then  cleaned  the  city  out  of 
empty  bottles,  both  pints  and  quarts,  but  met  with  a  loss 
on  the  pints,  as  the  law  would  only  allow  us  to  use  the  quart 
bottles;  rented  the  back  end  of  Cohens  store,  on  Alabama 
street,  and  the  privilege  of  an  ice-house,  for  storing;  got  up  a 
delivery  wagon,  and  made  engagements  for  sales.  Everything 
worked  nicely,  and  I  had  confidently  considered  the  question 
of  many  investments  in  Atlanta  dirt.  I  sent  Mr.  Obe.  word  to 
turn  on  a  sluice  of  dried  apple  cider — that  all  was  ready — and 
promptly  received  a  cargo  of  barreled  cider,  and  stowed  it 


Oft,  THE  WO&LD  HAS  CHANGED.  169 

away  in  the  ice-house ;  hired  help  and  bottled  up  a  couple  of 
thousand.  Mr.  Obe.  came  down  to  see  the  business  well  started, 
and  we  loaded  up  the  wagon  with  the  bottles  in  boxes  prepared 
for  the  purpose,  and  a  keg  which  had  been  engaged,  and  then 
mounted  the  spring-seat,  and  moved  off.  The  business  was  in 
operation ;  we  delivered  a  dozen  bottles  here  and  two  dozen 
there,  and  the  keg,  according  to  engagement ;  and  as  we  trav 
eled  round  delivering,  were  in  charming  good  humor,  and  very 
much  in  love  with  each  other,  and  all  the  rest  of  mankind. 

We  were  moving  far  up  Decatur  street — the  day  well  ad 
vanced  and  the  sun  growing  intensely  hot — when  we  heard  a 
shot  in  the  rear.  We  turned  to  see  where  the  shot  came 
from,  when  "  Bang !  "  went  another,  and  a  cork  flew  over  our 
heads,  with  a  shower  of  cider.  This  exhibition  had  not  been 
put  down  in  our  original  programme.  We  considered  it  acci 
dental,  knowing  that  accidents  sometimes  happen  in  the  best 
regulated  families.  Stopping  in  front  of  a  grocer's  store,  Mr. 
Obe.  stayed  with  the  team  while  I  gathered  an  armfull  of  bot 
tles  and  went  in.  I  found  the  proprietor  and  family  in  the 
back  room  at  dinner.  I  made  them  a  little  speech  on  the  mer 
its  of  our  champagne  cider,  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  nice 
opportunity  to  give  them  a  taste  of  our  delicious  beverage. 
I  cut  a  wire  and,  before  I  expected,  the  stopper  and  the  foam 
ing  liquid  burst  out  and  struck  the  old  lady  full  in  the  face. 
I  turned  the  muzzle  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  it  bespattered 
the  bosom  of  the  daughter;  whirled  the  gun  from  her,  and 
the  old  man,  in  trying  to  dodge,  turned  bis  chair  over  and  fell 
sprawling  on  the  floor.  The  ladies  fled,  screaming — and  the 
old  man  cursing.  I  was  left  alone  in  an  empty  room,  with  an 
empty  bottle.  I  tried  to  follow,  to  apologize  and  explain,  but 
they  shouted  at  me,  "Get  out,  get  out;  take  the  derned  stuff 


170  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW: 

out!"  When  I  got  to  the  front  door,  I  heard  several  more 
bottles  firing  off,  and  Mr.  Obe.  was  swinging  to  the  lines  to 
keep  the  horse  from  running  away.  I  climbed  in  behind,  and 
we  started  for  home;  and  as  we  pranced  down  Decatur  street 
the  fusilade  opened  out  in  dead  earnest,  and  it  took  both  of 
us  to  keep  the  team  in  the  street.  And  the  people  in  the 
streets,  doors  and  windows,  gazed  in  wonder  on  the  pass 
ing  scene.  We  got  safely  back  to  the  store,  and  found  all  in 
confusion  and  consternation  there.  The  bottles  were  firing 
off  in  platoons  in  the  rear  end,  the  corks  striking  the  ceiling 
and  flying  all  over  the  room,  and  the  inmates  huddled  about 
the  front  door.  We  stood  in  speechless  horror  at  the  scene. 
Just  then,  the  man  we  had  delivered  the  keg  of  dried  apple 
cider  to,  came  rushing  up  and  reported  that  the  keg  had 
blown  up  and  torn  the  whole  side  out  of  his  house.  Cohen 
was  ranting,  and  wanted  the  dynamite  removed  from  his 
house  immediately;  but  the  demand  was  unreasonable,  and 
we  paid  no  attention  to  it.  No  man  could  be  had  to  face  that 
terrible  battery.  Somebody  suggested  Cap  Joyner  and  the 
fire  department,  but  Cap  could  do  nothing  there.  Some 
wanted  Connolly  and  the  police,  but  several  policemen  peeped 
in  the  door  and  then  shied  off. 

After  awhile,  the  fracas  gradually  exhausted  itself  and  then 
died  down,  and  was  succeeded  by  the  usual  calm  that  follows 
the  storm. 

When  some  new  customers  came  in  (  who  had  not  heard  of 
the  trouble),  inquiring  for  the  champage  cider,  we  took 
them  down  to  the  ice  house  and  tapped  a  barrel  with  a  mallet, 
when  the  bung  flew  out  like  a  cannon  ball  and  sent  a  fountain 
of  cider  drenching  the  party,  and  everybody  fled  from  the 
scene.  Other  explosions  followed  till  everything  was  empty. 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  171 

Mr.  Obe.  and  I  dissolved  the  firm  by  mutual,  silent  consent. 
He  resumed  the  manufacture  of  vinegar,  and  I  confined  my 
efforts  strictly  to  the  affairs  of  the  National  Hotel. 

But  I  have  since  thought  we  broke  ranks  prematurely,  and 
lost  a  great  opportunity,  one  that  might  have  proved  a  for 
tune  to  us,  as  the  power  from  that  dried  apple  cider  might 
have  been  most  profitably  utilized  (instead  of  the  engine) 
under  the  artesian  well.  Why,  there  was  force  enough  in  one 
of  those  kegs  of  dried  apple  cider  to  have  thrown  the  water 
clear  over  the  Kimball  House,  and  rushed  it  through  the 
piping  to  every  part  of  the  city. 


172  THE    FOGY   DAYS    AND    NO\V  J 


AN  OLDEN  TIME  FOX  CHASE. 


HT'HE  people  of  to  day  have  a  greater  variety  of  amusements, 
than  in  the  olden  times,  and  I  suppose  their  amusements 
must  be  attractive  to  them ;  but  I  wouldn't  give  one  good  old 
time  fox  hunt  for  all  of  theirs  bunched  up  into  One  big  show. 
As  to  their  germans,  I  can't  form  an  opinion,  for  I  never 
saw  one.  The  base  ball  I  dont  understand ;  think  the  old  town 
ball  is  good  enough.  As  to  their  clubs  and  secret  societies, 
I  care  nothing  about  them ;  I  dont  like  the  secret  business. 
When  I  get  hold  of  anything  good,  I  want  everybody  to  know 
all  about  it.  The  modern  circus  has  got  so  many  rings  running 
at  the  same  time,  I  can't  see  what  is  going  on  in  one,  for  being 
bothered  with  the  others ;  and  even  music  is  now  so  adulter 
ated  and  diluted  with  cranky  preludes,  and  foreign  variations, 
innovations,  combinations  and  complications  that  it  is  hard 
to  detect  a  bit  of  the  old  simon-pure  in  it.  And  now  they  have 
got  to  having  canine  exhibitions  on  the  stage.  (The  theater 
has  gone  to  the  dogs  sooner  than  I  expected.)  Recently  a 
dog-gone  professor  introduced  a  parcel  of  imported  whelps  on 
the  stage  in  Atlanta.  He  had  along  with  him  a  vagabond  Irish 
dog  he  calls  Barney,  that  stood  on  his  head,  and  the  people 
thought  it  wonderful.  I  would  like  to  know  what  use,  or  com 
mon  sense,  or  skill  there  is  in  a  dog  standing  on  his  head.  A 
good  sensible  dog,  in  our  day,  would  have  refused  to  have 
made  such  a  fool  of  himself.  Then  this  professor  of  dogs  had 
these  dude  poodles  dressed  up  in  silks  and  streaming  ribbons, 
parading  the  streets,  drawn  by  splendid  spans  of  horses,  in 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  173 

magnificent  carriages.     Think  of  it,  Ameiican  people!     Dogs 
in  silks,  dogs  in  carriages,  and  dogs  on  the  stage. 

I  thought  it  bad  enough  to  try  to  "  histe "  the  nigger  over 
the  heads  of  the  white  folks,  but  now  it  comes  to  "histing" 
the  dogs  over  both — what  next?  I  like  the  dog  and  I  like 
the  nigger,  but  I  like  them  in  their  places.  I  like  rich  folks 
and  poor  folks,  but  there  is  a  proper  place  for  all.  But  it  does 
look  like,  in  these  modern  days,  things  are  getting  "  sorter 
mixed ;"  but  for  real  useful  knowledge  and  intelligence,  wa 
had  dogs  just  as  far  ahead  of  these  gentry  imported  pups  as 
Thomas  Jefferson  was,  in  his  day,  in  true,  broad  statesman 
ship,  ahead  of  little  Benny  Harrison.  This  seeins  to  me  to  be 
a  day  of  queer  capers,  anyhow.  Just  think  of  Clay,  Calhoun, 
or  Webster  cutting  up  the  capers  of  Tom  Reed  in  the  last 
congress.  Why,  it  is  too  ridiculous  to  think  about,  and  these 
gentry  dogs  seem  to  be  running  in  the  same  line. 

My  memory  goes  back  to  the  days  of  old  Troup,  Hector, 
Baily,  Rattler,  Jeff,  Lady,  and  Haidee,  and  other  good  dogs  of 
their  time  and  kind.  Dogs,  in  their  day,  noted  for  their  dignity 
of  character,  their  unquestioned  veracity,  their  almost  unerring 
wisdom  in  the  science  of  trackography,  their  vast  attainments 
in  deer  and  foxology,  dogs  of  sterling  integrity,  who  deserved 
to  be,  and  were,  examples,  and  were  imitated  by  every  respec 
table  young  dog  and  puppy  that  came  within  their  purview. 
I  have  often  watched  these  old  dogs,  as  they  lay  down,  or 
squatted  in  the  summer's  shade,  meditating  upon  the  mistakes 
of  the  last  season's  hunt,  and  planning  to  avoid  all  such  in  the 
next.  I  have  seen  them  so  absorbed  in  such  reflections,  that 
they  would  forget  to  snap  at  the  flies  swarming  round  their 
heads.  I  have  seen  old  Troupe  go  off  into  a  snooze  and  get  to 
dreaming.  Sometimes  he  would  dream  he'd  struck^ a  fresh, 


174  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

hot  trail,  when  he'd  spring  to  his  feet  and  shout  out,  "h-e-r-e 
h-e-w-e-n-t,"  wake  up  all  the  balance  of  the  pack,  and  have 
them  charging  around  looking  for  the  game;  then  he  would 
look  ashamed  of  himself,  walk  off  sorter  grinning  like,  hunt  an 
other  place,  and  lie  down  again. 

If  Troup  thought  he  knew  where  he  could  start  a  buck,  or 
wanted  to  go  a  hunting,  he  would  come  to  me  and  whine  and 
frisk,  and  wag  his  tail,  and  look  off  toward  the  mountains,  in  the 
direction  he  thought  the  deer  was ;  and  if  I  couldn't  go,  I'd 
just  tell  him  so,  and  then  he  would  look  disappointed,  and  if 
he  felt  he  couldn't  stand  it,  he'd  go  and  wake  up  the  pack:  and 
if  they  were  too  lazy,  why  he'd  just  go  by  himself,  pick  out  a 
good  sized  buck  and  run  him  clean  to  water. 

Troup  was  a  philosopher  and  an  economist.  If  he  thought 
he  was  going  to  have  a  long  run,  he  would  economise  his  wind 
— he'd  only  open  about  every  quarter  of  a  mile,  just  enough  to 
let  it  be  known  he  was  coming  down  to  his  business.  This  old 
dog  caught  in  the  Blue  Ridge  mountains  sixteen  deer,  that 
never  had  a  shot-hole  in  them ;  and  old  Jeff  broke  one  of  his 
fore  legs  running  a  deer.  I  splinted  it  up,  and  he  went  out 
again  and  broke  the  other  leg,  and  walked  home  three 
miles  on  his  hind  legs,  and  for  months  he  walked  about  the 
yard  on  those  two  legs.  It's  a  fact.  My  wife  says  she  has 
seen  him  do  it  a  many  a  time,  and  she  will  tell  anybody  so. 

But  we  started  to  tell  about  an  olden  time  fox  chase.  We 
have  been  in  so  many — hardly  know  which  one  to  tell  about : 
Our  old  time  dogs  couldn't  speak  English,  but  they  could  listen, 
and  heard  every  word  we  said,  and  knew  just  what  we 
said,  and  what  we  wanted. 

I'll  give  this  one.  We  were  to  meet  at  Warr's  old  field, 
which  lay  between  the  present  town  of  Seneca,  S.  C.,  and  the 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  175 

river,  at  half  past  10,  o'clock  p.  ra.  I  select  this  one  because 
it  was  short  and  business  like. 

As  the  hour  approached,  I  mounted  my  Bucephalus,  and  blew 
up  the  dogs,  they  were  all  keen,  in  for  the  hunt,  and  in 
finest  trim.  As  I  wended  my  way  along  the  country  roads,  I 
could  hear  the  winding  of  the  horns  of  my  comrades  as  the 
cheery  sounds  were  wafted  over  the  hills  from  their  different 
routes.  We  were  all  promptly  on  the  ground.  There 
were  Tom  Lewis,  Dave,  Mack,  Sloan,  Joel  Patterson,  and  my 
self — all  had  our  favorite  dogs.  We  were  sitting  on  our  horses 
discussing  the  route  to  be  taken ;  the  dogs  were  flying  round  in 
wide  circles  over  the  crisp  grass  and  frosted  leaves,  in  the 
bright  moon -light.  Joel  Patterson  had  a  dew  drop  in  his 
pocket,  with  which  we  all  moistened  our  lips.  Joel  had  hardly 
returned  the  jewel  to  his  pocket,  when  Tom  Lewis'  little  bitch, 
Lady,  struck  a  trail,  down  near  the  old  school  house.  Torn 
yelled  out,  "  I  heard  you  my  little  Lady,"  and  we  all  moved  off 
in  that  direction.  We  passed  old  Jeff  in  the  field,  (close  on 
our  right,  diligently  snuffing  the  ground,)  and  saw  him  sud 
denly  raise  his  head  heavenward,  and  quivering  from  head  to 
foot,  cried  out,  in  doggerel  : 

"  He's  been  right  here,  for  a  fact;  he's  been  right  here,  I  smell  his  track." 

Now  Rattler  opens  out  across  the  branch,  and  the  cry 
becomes  general,  as  each  dog  gets  a  sniff  of  where  rey- 
nard  has  been  loitering.  Now  Hector  and  Bailey  turn 
loose  together,  down  the  ridge  ;  they  have  got  the  run 
ning  trail ;  they  make  towards  the  fish  trap,  and  the  whole 
pack  have  fallen  into  line,  and  the  music  has  commenced* 
Talk  about  Gilmore's,  or  Barrack's  bands,  I  love  to  hear  them  ; 
but  if  both  of  them  were  going  on  at  Grant's  park,  and  this  old 
time  dog  music  heard  about  the  Soldiers'  Home,  I'd  make  for 
the  home.  Now  every  thing  is  in,  and  its  "  Yah-rah-ya-rah-ugh- 


176  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

ugh-oph-oph-ya-rah-oph-oph-ugh-ugh,"  and  notes  impossible  to 
spell  in  the  English  Language,  or  for  the  science  of  music  to 
confine  to  it  its  limited  staff  and  bars.  Now  the  chorus  swells 
out  o'er  hill  and  dale,  with  its  prolonged  and  softened  echoes,  a 
music  wild,  wierd  and  heavenly.  I  imagine  it  to  be  a  fore 
taste,  a  sort  of  type  of  when,  in  the  millenium,  the  angels  shall 
come  down  to  chase  the  devils  out  of  a  sin  freed  world.  Oh, 
the  extacies  of  an 'old-time  fox  hunt. 

The  dogs  are  off,  and  the  hunters  close  behind,  yelling  en 
couragement  to  the  eager  pack,  leaping  logs,  gullies  and  fences. 
Now  they  turn  up  the  banks  of  the  Keowee,  and  now  their 
quickened  cry  tells  us  plainly  they  have  got  him  on  the  run. 
Now  they  turn  again  at  the  fork,  and  up  Little  River,  and  now 
they  leave  the  stream  and  make  for  the  Dry  Pond,  and  on 
toward  the  Ramsey  place ;  there  they  turn  up  Seneca  creek, 
cross  over  and  down  the  other  side.  We  cross  the  creek  and 
wait;  here  comes  the  fox  in  a  few  feet  of  us,  he  bounces  like 
an  india  rubber  ball,  seemingly  confident,  and  at  each  jump 
his  tail  flies  from  the  ground  high  over  his  back  ;  the  dogs  pass 
us  well  bunched,  and  wild  with  the  excitement,  as  they  see  us 
watching  them,  and  five  lusty  throats  gave  the  genuine  fox- 
whoop  with  a  will;  now  they  head  round  Sloan's  mill-pond,  and 
on  down  to  the  Earle  place;  here  reynard  tries  several  dodges, 
but  the  dogs  push  him  too  close,  and  he  resorts  to  the  cow-pen 
trick — in  amongst  the  cattle.  As  the  dogs  come  up  the  cows 
bellow  and  show  fight.  This  brings  confusion  for  a  little  while, 
but  the  dogs  circle  wide  to  avoid  the  cattle,  and  soon  Heck  and 
Bailey  strike  the  trail  again,  and  all  the  balance  of  the  pack 
fall  quickly  into  line.  Now  back  to  the  mill  pond,  where  he 
tries  to  loose  them  in  the  hurricane  thicket,  but  they  soon 
scare  him  out,  and  back  to  the  Ramsey  place,  where  he  tries 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  177 

the  fence-dodge  ;  but  no  go,  for  Haidee  finds  where  he  struck 
ground,  and  off  the  pack  go,  now  back  to  Warr's  old  field 
where  the  start  was  made.  Here  he  makes  several  circuits. 
Now  we  see  him  again,  badly  worn  and  his  tail  hangs  low ;  he 
is  running  for  his  life;  the  dogs  pass  us  tired  but  confident; 
now  he  makes  for  the  fish-trap  once  more,  but  turns  as  we  meet 
him  again.  We  see  his  time  is  almost  up ;  his  efforts  are  labored, 
his  tongue  is  lolling  from  his  mouth,  and  the  fog  is  rising  from 
his  thick  fur;  the  dogs  are  fast  closing  the  distance  between 
them  ;  we  follow  close  behind,  and  now  old  Bailey's  nose  is 
almost  on  his  tail ;  he  turns  to  avoid  the  dog,  and  falls  into 
Rattler's  jaws,  then  a  bunching  of  dogs,  a  scramble,  a  death 
squall,  and  all  is  over.  Bale  Maxwell  gets  the  tail,  the  fun  is 
over,  the  hunters  are  happy,  the  dogs  are  happy,  and  poor  rey- 
nard,  if  not  happy,  is  at  rest.  The  dogs  rest,  loll  their  tongues 
and  pant,  we  blow  our  horses  and  talk  over  the  chase,  and  the 
splendid  performance  of  each  dog  is  commented  upon.  Now 
we  wind  our  horns  again,  hunters  and  dogs  separate  and  seek 
our  several  homes  to  sleep,  and  dream  happy  dreams,  and  as 
we  write  up  this  old  time  fox  chase,  after  the  changes  and 
tribulations  of  time,  the  whole  of  life  seems  to  us  but  a  fitful 
dream. 

We  are  aware  that  some  men  are  soulless  as  to  the  music  of 
a  fox  chase,  for  we  remember  Bob  Jarrett,  of  Tugaloo,  onec 
called  out  an  infidel  to  listen  to  the  glorious  melodies  of  a  fox 
chase.  The  dogs  were  in  full  cry  up  the  river  bank.  Bob 
asked  him  again,  "Dont  you  hear  the  glorious  music?"  when 
he,  the  idiot  replied,  he  could  not  hear  a  thing  for  the  barking 
of  those  confounded  dogs  down  about  the  river.  Bob  left  the 
man  in  unutterable  disgust,  and  sprang  out  after  the  dogs. 


/   i 


HON.  JONATHAN  NORCROSS, 

Born  in  Charleston,  Maine,  his  first  adventure  was  in  Cuba,  where  he  engaged  in  the 
machine  business ;  next  in  North  Carolina,  as  a  schoolteacher;  from  thence  to  Augusta, 
Ga.,  in  the  same  avocation;  thence  to  Marthasville,  with  ahorse  saw  mill;  next,  estab 
lished  at  the  now  famous  old  Norcross  Corner  as  a  merchant  (where  I  well  remember  his 
shingle  advertisement  hung  out.  for  exchange  in  country  produce). 

Elected  Mayor  of  Atlanta  in  1850,  Mr.  Jonathan  Norcross  may  be  considered  above 
all  others,  as  a  father  to  Atlanta,  as  a  father  to  the  great  Air  Line  Railroad,  and  the  father 
of  the  State  Railroad  Commission.  The  Pioneer  of  Atlanta,  and  as  the  living  link  between 
its  present  and  the  past;  has  lived  in  Atlanta  from  its  beginning,  and  its  friend  in  every 
great  enterprise.  An  honest  republican,  loved  and  honored  even  by  his  political  foes.  I 
have  known  him  for  forty  years,  and  remember  him  in  those  olden  days  as  one  of  the  best 
patrons  of  the  telegraph  business. 


THE    CRACKER  GIRL. 


On  Carolina's  hills,  my  father's  flocks 
Were  fed,  and  I  a  mountain  sprout, 

When  wandring  fancies  filled  my  head, 
And  I  longed  to  look,  look  about. 

From  South  Carolina,  a  frugal  swain, 
Like  Norval  from  the  Grampian  hills  ; 

Though  we  left  home  in  times  of  peace, 
Our  home  where  sang  the  whippoorwills. 

Had  heard  tell  of  Iron  rail-roads, 
Big  towns,  of  steamers  on  the  sea; 

Of  a  great  world  filled  with  wonders, 
So  a  rov-yer  were  bound  to  be. 

Had  read  in  books  about  Columbus, 
Of  Alladdin,  in  the  Arabian  Knights, 

Of  clever  old  Robinson  Crusoe, 

And  of  strange  and  marvelous  sights. 

It  was  talked,  away  over  in  Georgia, 
A  mighty  town  had  been  designed, 

'Twas  bound  to  be  a  railroad  center, 
Oodles  of  trade  would  be  consigned. 

Marthasville  the  little  burg  was  called, 
Now  as  Atlanta  was  to  be  known, 

Taken  on  a  high-fa-luten  name, 
Had  let  out  a  tuck  in  her  gown. 


182  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND 

Now  Martha  was  but  a  country  lass, 
And  FO  she'd  stepped  upon  the  rink, 

Although  her  dress  was  sort  of  shabby, 
'Twas  said  she  had  a  business  wink. 

And  so  I  left  my  parental  home 
And  steered  my  charger  west- ward  ho  ? 

My  fortune  in  my  britches  pocket, 
Lit  out,  struck  the  grit,  off  did  go 

For  Atlanta,  in  a  bee-line  course. 

Here,  forty  years  ago,  I  landed. 
'Twas  not  long  till  my  funds  were  gone, 

Till  my  finances  all  were  stranded. 

When  I  found  I'd  have  to  hump  it ; 

Fortune  favored  in  my  behalf, 
A  new  thing  had  just  then  started, 

And  I  struck  for  the  telegraph. 

To  President  Foote  I  boldly  went, 
Applied  for  the  Atlanta  position. 

He  asked  if  I  was  an  expert, 
I  said,  to  be,  was  my  intention. 

Told  him  I'd  never  seen  the  thing, 
But  reckoned  a  fellow  might  learn. 

Astonishment  seemed  on  his  face, 
Tho't  he  said,  well,  you-be  dern. 

I  told  him  I  wan't  afraid  of  work, 
Then  looked  him  right  straight  in  the  face. 

Said  he,  young  man,  may  be,  you  can ; 
Go  try,  if  so,  can  have  the  place. 

I'll  ne'er  forget  his  kindly  face, 
When  as  learner  I  was  installed  ; 

I  made  the  riffle,  caught  on  the  lick, 
By  no  obstacles  was  appalled. 


OR,    THE    WORLt>    HAS    CHANGED.  183 

First  to  sling  Atlanta's  lightning, 

'Twas  right  here  I   made  the  start ; 
Then  but  a  little  shabby  hamlet, 

And  now  this  great  business  mart. 

The  town  then  seemed  a  small  potatoe, 

A  sort  of  grass  colt  over  done, 
And  so  slow  to  grow  any  bigger, 

As  to  outcome  there  seemed  none. 

And  ever  since  that's  been  the  talk, 

Folks  said  she'd  never  fili  her  gown, 
But  she's  kept  a  growing  all  the  same, 

Till  the  old  dudds  can't  hold  the  town. 

She's  bound  to  be  a  corspt  burster — 

Can't  tell  what  she's  going  to  be ; 
Of  all  towns  in  the  Sunny  South, 

She's  bound  to  be  the  grand  Cit-tee. 

But  I  got  tired  of  the  cracker  girl, 

And  longed  to  see  the  far  off  west ; 
Now  for  California  gold  mines, 

There  next  determined  to  invest. 

So  with  my  friend,  J.  W.  Rucker, 

We  bade  the  little  town  adieu ; 
Agreed  to  try  the  world  together, 

Those  auriferous  fields  we'd  view. 

We  passed  within  the  golden  gate, 

But  it  cost  us  many  a  quarter ; 
Found  that  gold  did  not  grow  on  trees, 

Had  to  be  dug  in  mud  and  water. 

Sure  we  took  in  those  golden  fields, 
Didn't  pan  out  as  we  expected ; 


J.  W.  RUCKER,  ESQ.. 

Of  the  present  firm  of  Maddox  &  Rucker,  Atlanta,  Ga.,  is  my  old  California  chum. 
Forty  years  ago  he  was  a  poor  young  man,  a  clerk  for  U.  L.  Wright,  on  Whitehall  street. 
We  left  Atlanta  together,  went  by  my  father's  home  at  old  Pendleton,  S.  C.,  from  thence 
via  Charleston,  S.  C.,  New  York,  Havana,  Panama,  Acapulco,  San  Francisco,  Sacramento, 
and  into  the  gold  mining  region,  where  we  soon  got  strapped  and  had  to  separate  and  hire 
out  to  work  for  a  living,  and  met  again  in  Atlanta,  Ga.,  after  many  years. 

Rucker,  by  great  diligence  and  unswerving  rectitude,   has   accumulated  a  handsome 
fortune,  is  well  known  in  Georgia,  and  liked  by  everybody. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW.  185 

We  had  no  lack  of  hardy  toil, 
But  as  to  wealth,  wan't  elected. 

'Twas  then  we  thought  of  home,  sweet  home, 

Of  friends  and  comforts  left  behind ; 
Of  our  dear  old  South  and  betterments. 

And  of  many  other  things  in  kind. 

I  sighed  for  the  songs  of  whippoorwills, 

And  longed  to  herd  my  father's  flocks  ; 
To  see  the  dear  old  hills  of  Caroline, 

Divel  take  the  pesky  gold  and  rocks. 

Rucker  yearned  for  the  cracker  girl, 

Sweet  to  him  ee'n  in  her  shabby  frock, 
Swore  if  he  got  back  to  her  again, 

There  he'd  forever  plant  his  stock. 

True  to  his  word  here  he  has  staid, 

Has  proved  most  faithful  to  that  vow ; 
Plodded  on  through  the  weary  years. 

Till  his  form  has  begun  to  bow. 

I  went  back  to  old  Caroline, 

After  years  wandered  here  again  ; 
Could  not  forget  the  cracker  girl, 

Who  fixed  her  image  on  my  brain. 

Found  Rucker  on  an  upper  limb, 

Though  I  am  roosting  on  the  fence ; 
I  am  glad  to  hear  Rucker  crow, 

He's  got  dollars,  where  I've  got  cents. 

Rucker  was  sort  of  slow  and  sure, 

I,  perhaps,  little  sorter  fickle ; 
But  he's  raked  in  the  spondulicks, 

And  I've  just  about  lost  the  sickle. 


18(5  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW. 

Right  here  will  tell  of  another  friend, 
A  friend  of  all,  would  Jo  to  trust : 

L.  E.  Bleckley,  who'd  settled  here  ; 
Anchored  here,  for  better  or  for  worst. 

Fiiend  Bleckley  bought  a  box  of  books 
At  auction,  said  he'd  no  time  for  fun  ; 

To  read  and  learn,  he'd  started  out 
For  to  climb  the  ladder,  he'd  begun. 

Then,  too,  we  had  a  debating  club, 
And  he  was  the  longest  winded, 

On  questions  for  to  argufy, 
With  fellers  that  was  so  minded. 

Bleckley  kept  a  mighty  digging, 
Digging  for  lore,  law  and  fame ; 

I  didn't  take  to  that  kind  of  digging, 
But  he  dug,  dug  himself  a  name. 

Now  I'll  speak  about  a  little  boy, 
Little  black-eyed  kid,  name  of  Evan — 

Evan  Howell,  my  dispatch  boy, 
And  this  kid  is  still  a  liven. 

He's  a  big  horee  now,  a  rouser, 
Is  printen  of  a  great  big  paper ; 

He  don't  seem  like  that  small  kid  now, 
Case  he's  a  real  gol-golly  whopper. 

Recall  to  mind  many  others 
We  left  here  forty  years  ago ; 

Most  of  them  have  gathered  moss, 
As  their  Atlanta  dirt  will  show. 

Had  we  stuck  to  the  little  city, 
And,  like  them,  had  saved  our  pewter, 

Might  have  become  a  plowshare  too, 
Instead  of  a  little  scooter. 


I 


This  page  was  intended  to  present  a  like 
ness  of  my  friend,  Judge  Bleckley,  but  at  his 
request  it  is  left  blank,  so  that  each  reader 
may  supply  the  picture  from  his  own  im 
agination. 


The  lines  above  were  written  and  handed  to  me  by  my  friend,  Judge  Bleckley,  upon 
my  application  for  his  picture,  and  it  is  with  regret  that  I  have  to  inform  my  readers,  that 
on  account  of  my  regard  for  the  request  of  the  Judge,  I  have  restrained  my  desire  to  pre 
sent  his  likeness  on  "this  page,"  as  intended. 

However,  as  the  Judge's  injunction  only  applies  to  "  this  page,"  as  intended,  it  is  with 
pleasure  that  I  announce  to  them  that  I  have  secBred  a  most  excellent  picture  of  the  Judge> 
and  present  it  on  another  and  unforbidden  page,  together  with  a  little  poem  from  is  pen. 


CAPT.  EVAN  P.  HOWELL, 
The  Napolian  of  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  a  man  of  big  brain,  and  has  wielded  a  powerful 

M 

influence  in  the  affairs  of  Georgia. 

Forty  years  ago  he  was  my  telegraph  messenger  boy  in  the  first  telegraph  office  started  in 
the  city,  and  he  was  a  bright  one,  and  a  good  boy.  (He  may  have  done  some  devilment 
since  then.)  I  remember  once  watching  him  count  his  days  earnings,  which  had  been  extra 
ordinarily  large,  two  dollars  and  five  cents,  (he  got  five  cents  on  the  delivery  of  each  message.) 
He  looked  up  at  me  with  eyes  sparkling  with  inspiration,  and  said  Mr.  Sloan  I  am  going  to 
be  a  rich  man.  He  has  made  the  rich  man,  loves  a  good  joke,  enjoys  life;  and  if  perpetual 
vouth  could  be  preserved,  think  he  would  be  willing  to  cast  his  lot  with  Atlanta  forever. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW.  189 

Now  my  head  is  growing  whiter, 

My  days  they  will  soon  be  ended  ; 
I  dropped  my  pail,  and  spilt  my  milk, 

And  its  too  late  to  be  mended. 

After  another  forty  years  have  sped, 

Don't  think  I  much  shall  care 
How  this  little  world  is  wagging, 

Nor  that  I  didn't  get  my  share. 

Got  to  think  next  world's  the  big  one ; 

My  future  hopes  all  center  there, 
And  now  wouldn't  swap  the  chances 

For  the  wealth  of  worlds  down  here. 

I  have  made  right  smart  of  money, 

But  somehow  never  could  it  keep ; 
The  thing  was  so  slick  and  eely, 

That  I  couldn't  make  it  heap. 

I  never  loved  the  mighty  dollar 

As  much  as  what  it  would  buy, 
And  I  couldn't  keep  from  spending, 

I  reckon  that's  the  reason  why. 

But  a  word  more  about  Atlanta, 

Our  grand  Lady  and  so  fair ; 
The  crown  upon  her  queenly  head, 

The  sparkling  jewels  in  her  hair. 

Such  beauteous  face,  winsome  form — 

Ain't  she  a  daizy,  daizy  belle? 
And  what  her  triumphs  are  to  be, 

Is  more  than  weuns  now  can  tell. 

She  steps  lightly  like  a  fairy, 
All  her  movements  so  full  of  grace ; 


190  THE    KOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

Like  her  namesake,  swift  Atalanta, 
She's  the  champion  in  every  race. 

Who'd  have  guessed  this  cracker  girl, 
The  same  that  wore  the  shabby  dress ; 

But  though  she  was  a  cracker  girl, 
She  had  a  wink  to  business. 

Now  her  suitors  count  by  thousands, 
Under  each  one's  arm  they  say  is  worn 

Ever  alert  to  start  to  tooting, 
For  'tis  said,  each  one  toots  a  horn. 

And  she  dances  to  the  music, 
She  cuts  a  caper  for  every  blast ; 

Can't  count  the  twinkles  of  her  feet, 
Kase  she  flings  em  out  so  fast. 

Lightly  trips  our  Lady  Atlanta, 
So  lightly  trips  to  the  mazy  dance  ; 

She's  the  belle  of  all  the  townies, 
And  she's  passed  the  line  of  chance. 

See  her  church  spires  point  to  heaven, 
She's  kind  and  helpful  to  the  poor ; 

She  has  a  welcome  for  the  stranger, 
Her  latch  string's  outside  the  door. 

Her  breezes  are  soft  and  balmy, 
And  her  heart  is  ever  warm  and  true ; 

You  bet  her  dirt  is  good  investment, 
And  will  bring  in  the  revenue. 

Toot  your  horns  for  the  cracker  girl, 
The  girl  who  wore  the  shabby  dress, 

For  now  she's  a  Dolly  Varden, 
She's  a  hummer,  and  nothing  less. 


OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  191 


PROHIBITION   VICTORY   IN   ATLANTA,  GA. 


The  battle  is  o'er,  the  victory  won, 
Prohibition  has  saved,  saved  her  son  ; 
The  blue  ribbon  triumphs  over  the  red, 
The  goggle-eye  monster,  drink,  is  dead. 

The  day  of  Jubilee  has  surely  come, 
Prohibition  has  slain,  buried  rum ; 
Great  rejoicing  throughout  the  camp, 
Jined  with  the  saint  is  the  Jug-a-wamp. 

Dear  Atlanta,  for  thee  there  is  a  boom, 
Blessings  for  which  there  can't  be  room  ; 
Shake  hands,  victors,  shake  hands,  shake, 
We've  fought  the  battle,  won  the  stake. 

One  Boniface,  he  sot  on  the  fence, 
Reckon,  bekase  he'd  no  better  sense ; 
And  he  didn't  take  to  narry  side, 
So  sot  on  the  fence,  sot  thar,  astride. 

He  heard  Prohibition's  vengeful  cry, 
See'd  the  sparks  come  outen  her  eye ; 
See'd  her  light  onto  the  crouching  brute, 
But  he  sot  thar  still,  sot  thar  mute. 

Sot  tbar  till  Betsey  kilt  the  bar, 
Watched  through  all  the  howlin  war ; 
Saw  Prohibition  Betsey  whip  the  fight, 
This  Betsey  gal — oh  !  wan't  she  a  sight? 

She  fit  and  prayed,  and  prayed  aud  fit, 
And,  golly,  didn't  she  make  old  Anti  git? 


192  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

Preacher  folks  belt  Betsey's  skirts  ; 
'Tis  tho't  some  of  em  tore  their  shirts. 

Niggers  jined  in,  throwed  Betsey  chunks, 
Kase  'twas  fore-agreed  to  go  in  hunks ; 
White  gals  pinned  ribbons  on  their  coats, 
And  served  them  lunch  to  git  their  votes. 

And  thus  it  wer  old  Agaric  died, 
Who  had  so  long  the  law  defied ; 
A  rose  smells  as  sweet  by  other  name, 
But  whiskey  will  be  drunk  all  the  same. 

For  Prohibition  now  sound  three  cheers, 
Let  defeated  Antis  close  their  ears ; 
Now  we'll  ride  upon  the  upper  decks, 
We've  got  our  feet  upon  their  necks. 

Come  world,  we  open  now  all  our  doors, 
Prohibition  will  fill  all  our  stores ; 
Come  world,  Atlanta  is  now  the  hub, 
Strike  the  tambourine,  a  rub  a  dub,  dub. 

And  the  poor  imbecile,  who  had  no  will, 
His  only  grits  from  prohibition  mill ; 
Poor  devil,  who  couldn't  pass  a  bar, 
He  too.  saved  by  this  mighty  war. 

Poor  old  Anti,  whar,  oh  whar  now  is  he? 
Lets  wait  two  years,  then  we'll  see ; 
He  may  be  dead,  past  resurrection, 
But  apt  to  hitch  on  another  connection. 

Now  your  Poet  feels  little  sort  of  sad, 
For  in  this  victory  he  no  part  had ; 
No  part  in  victory,  neither  feels  defeat, 
Till  he  gits  short  of  something  good  to  eat. 

Written  the  morning  after  the  prohibition  victory  in  Atlanta,  Ga.  In  that  election  I  was 
neutral.  I  could  not  vote  for  whiskey,  on  the  other  hand,  I  thought  the  jug  business  would 
make  matters  worse. 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  193 


OUR    OLD   CHIEFTAIN. 

(Mrs.  Davis  offers  her  husband  medicine.) 


Pray  excuse  me,  my  dear  wife, 
Medicine  cannot  save  my  life ; 
Pray  excuse  me,  a  gentle  wave, 
With  his  enfeebled  hand,  he  gave. 

Pray  excuse  me  from  the  pain, 
For  to  no  good  it  can  attain. 
Pray  excuse  me,  was  his  last  word, 
His  last  speech  ever  heard. 

Pray  excuse  me,  I  must  away  ; 
I  must  go,  cannot  longer  stay. 
Pray  excuse  me,  my  dear  friends, 
For  angel  spirits  now  attends. 

Pray  excuse  me,  oh,  my  South, 
Last  words  from  his  mouth. 
Pray  excuse  me,  I  cannot  take, 
Give  to  widows  and  happy  make. 

Pray  excuse  me,  I  cannot  receive, 
Let  your  alms  orphans  relieve 
Pray  excuse  me,  nor  think  me  proud, 
Want  not  charity,  prefer  my  shroud. 

Pray  excuse  me,  ye  who  hate, 
For  I  have  been  a  man  of  fate. 
Pray  excuse  me,  ye  who  spurn, 
For  my  people  my  heart  did  burn, 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW ; 

Pray  excuse  me,  my  country's  flag, 
From  my  South  I  could  not  lag. 
Pray  excuse  me,  if  I  must  sever, 
Forsake  my  country,  never,  never. 

Pray  excuse  me,  if  I  must  yield 
My  country's  cause  upon  battle  field. 
Pray  excuse  me,  for  tmust  bear 
Her  lost  cause  I  held  so  dear. 

Pray  excuse  me  from  the  scorn, 
For  to  entreat  I  ne'er  was  born. 
Pray  excuse  me,  I'll  bear  the  blame, 
God  is  my  judge,  I  know  no  shame. 

Pray  excuse  me,  time  shall  clear 
The  shafts  of  venom  I  did  not  fear. 
Pray  excuse  me,  perhaps  'tis  best ; 
I  did  my  duty,  now  I'll  rest. 

Pray  excuse  me,  if  I  did  wrong, 
In  heaven  above  this  be  my  song. 
Pray  excuse  me,  I  must  be  gone ; 
To  heaven  alone  shall  I  atone. 


OR,    THE    WOULD    MAS    CHANGED.  105 


A  clerk  in  the  War  Department,  says  he  would  not  lower  the  flag  on  the 
death  of  Jefferson  Davis. 

THE    LITTLE    PURP. 


There  is  a  little  purp  at  Washington, 
Don't  know  the  size  of  his  body  ; 

We'd  bet  he's  got  but  little  brain, 
Yes,  we'd  bet  a  brandy  toddy. 

This  little  thing,  he  turns  loose, 
The  little  fellow  seems  a  talker ; 

This  little  fice,  with  noisy  mouth, 
Like  all  his  breed,  he's  a  barker. 

Like  the  purp  that  beyed  the  moon, 
He  tries  to  bark  at  Jefferson  Davis. 

These  fice  purps  will  make  a  fuss  ; 
From  fice  purps,  Lord,  save  us 

Borrowed  wit  from  Old  Beast  Butler, 
He  would  bury  the  Mexican  leg; 

Then  would  hang  the  Davis  body — 
Little  purp,  he'd  suck  an  egg. 

This  lit'tle  would-be  son  of  Mars — 
Underling,  they  call  him  partridge — 

Without  asking,  tells  what  he  would  do, 
And  he's  never  smelt  a  cartridge. 

Dry  up,  dry  up,  you  little  purp, 
Your  bark,  it  sounds  too  ficey ; 

Better  wait  till  you  are  asked, 
You  need  both  wit  and  policy. 


THB    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 


THE    MESSENGER   OF    PEACE. 


A  meteor  flashed  athwart  the  sky, 

A  star  of  wondious  brilliancy  : 
And  thousands  gazed  as  it  went, 

And  thousands  grieved  when  spent. 

O'er  a  continent  in  its  flight, 
South  to  north  flashed  its  light, 

Then  sank  at  old  Plymoth  Rock, 
First  landing  of  our  parent  stock. 

Like  Bethlehem's  star,  mission  peace, 
The  bonds  of  hate  sought  to  release ; 

Messenger  from  heaven,  oh,  brothers,  heed, 
To  heal  the  wounds  that  still  do  bleed. 

Glorious  Grady,  thy  work  was  short, 
Brave  and  alone,  with  no  cohort ; 

Like  the  master,  sowed  the  seed, 
Like  the  master,  martyr  to  the  deed. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  197 


WHO  IS  POOR? 


We  may  be  poor  in  worldly  gain, 

May  be  poor  in  what's  called  lucre, 
Our  purse  strings  ever  were  too  short — 

No,  we  never  was  much  on  euchre. 
Yet  we  are  not  without  possessions 

Too  rich  for  sordid  gold  to  buy. 
My  wife  is  worth  a  nameless  price, 

And  we  rate  her  none  too  high. 
Have  our  boy,  and  he's  all  right, 

He's  the  gentleman,  every  inch  ; 
He's  as  true  as  steel,  and  staunch, 

And  we  can  trust  him  in  a  pinch. 
Our  old  fiddle  still  is  left  to  us, 

Have  had  it  nigh  on  to  fifty  years  ; 
Has  been  in  all  our  ups  and  downs, 

And  still  shares  our  joys  and  fears. 
Wife's  old  piano  still  sounds  sweet, 

Though  'twas  bought  before  the  war  ; 
Like  Mary's  lamb,  has  stuck  to  us, 

Though  it  has  gotten  many  a  scar. 
And  there's  our  old  buckhorn  pipe, 

Our  consolation  in  every  wail ; 
Dear  reminder  of  former  days, 

Will  go  with  us  down  to  the  vale. 
Our  old  horn  hangs  by  the- wall, 

And  it  is  not  unknown  to  fame ; 
Though  sighing  now  among  the  willows, 

It  grieves  but  knows  no  shame. 


198  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

Still  have  our  manhood,  all  our  pluck, 

While  we  live  we'll  strike  away ; 
If  our  coffers  have  failed  to  fill, 

We  trust  we  struck  for  higher  pay. 
Then  who  is  poor?  it  can't  be  us, 

It  might  be  the  rich  to-morrow ; 
To  leave  behind  what  we  have  named, 

Can  only  cause  us  sorrow. 
From  the  old  fiddle,  horn  and  pipe, 

From  these  we'll  have  to  sever ; 
Wife  and  boy  we'll  meet  again, 

No  more  to  part,  no  more  forever. 
We  doubt  not  God  will  care  for  us 

As  long  as  he  lets  us  stay. 
So  will  wait  and  laugh,  be  content, 

Whilst  fleeting  time  is  called  to-day. 
More  than  all,  the  blessed  hope 

Of  Christ,  through  riches  of  his  grace ; 
Oh  !  what  joys  we  expect  in  Him, 

When  we  reach  the  heavenly  place. 


OR.    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  199 


[From  the  Atlanta  Journal.] 

HOTEL   POETRY. 


THB  NATIONAL   HOTEL. 

Our  friend,  Major  D.  U.  Sloan,  senior  proprietor  of  the 
National,  has  much  native  wit  about  him.  He  occasionally 
drops  into  poetry,  which  bristles  with  points,  as  note  the 
following  : 

Friend  and  stranger,  you  would  do  well, 
To  stop  at  the  National  Hotel, 
In  Atlanta,  you'll  see  it  stand 
At  Peachtree  crossing,  close  at  hand. 
Stands  in  the  center  of  the  town — 
The  business  center — sets  you  down. 
Our  doors  are  open  night  and  day, 
With  a  welcome  in  the  good  old  way. 

Not  first-class,  in  a  high-faluten  sense ; 
First-class  middle-class,  all  intents. 
Nabob  or  Dude  might  histe  his  nose, 
The  Peacock  tribe  expect  to  lose. 
We  seek  no  style,  we  make  no  show ; 
For  paraphernalia  we  do  not  go, 
Of  solid  comforts  have  the  best, 
In  these  good  things  we  do  invest. 

'Tis  not  glitter  that  makes  us  rest, 
The  homelike  fare  is  oft  the  best ; 
Good  appetite  needs  no  display, 
Better  tempted  the  good  old  way. 


200  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW; 

Our  meals  are  square,  the  cooking  good, 
We  put  up  things  just  as  we  should ; 
Our  rooms  are  nice,  the  linen  clean, 
Servants  attentive  as  ever  seen. 

A  first-class  middle-class  hotel, 
Where  hest  people  are  wont  to  dwell ; 
Great  middle-class,  of  all  the  best, 
Purest,  truest  of  all  the  rest ; 
The  strong  bulwarks  of  every  land, 
Their  country's  pillars  do  they  stand  ; 
They  are  the  muscle  and  the  brain, 
Pardon  us  if  we  speak  too  plain. 

But  grand  hotels  there  ought  to  be, 
Grand  things  are  pleasant  for  to  see ; 
Let  those  who  have  to  throw  away, 
Suit  their  fancy,  for  which  they  pay. 
Must  be  hotels  of  every  sort, 
Hotels  for  purses  that  are  short ; 
Ours  is  run  on  the  solid  plan, 
The  right  place  for  the  middle  man. 

Now,  friend  and  stranger,  what  you  need 
Is,  that  your  purses  should  not  bleed. 
Good  fare  at  reason  able  prices, 
vNot  to  pay  for  extra  devices ; 
Then,  traveler,  stop  with  Dave  U.  Sloan, 
Make  you  feel  like  his  house  is  yourn ; 
He'll  feed  you  and  sleep  you  so  well, 
You  can't  keep  away  from  his  hotel. 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  201 


SEWING  MACHINE  POETRY. 


The  world  moves  on,  moves  on  apace, 

Onward  moves  the  mighty,  mighty  race; 

Could  our  fathers,  back  from  the  grave, 

See  how  we  doth  labor,  labor  save ; 

What  invention  for  us  hath  won, 

What  half-century  for  us  hath  done ; 

See  the  great  steamers  plow  the  sea. 

Long  railway  belting  hill  and  lea, 

Telegraph,  telephone  and  wonder  sights, 

Oil,  gas,  and  grand  electric  lights, 

Never  dreamed  of  fifty  years  ago. 

But  onward,  flying  onward,  here  we  go, 

Fulton  and  Morse  first  led  the  van, 

This  day  Edison  is  a  mighty  man ; 

Already  the  world  is  set  ablaze, 

Invention  seems  to  be  the  craze. 

Now  here  comes  Brosius'  new  machine, 

For  woman  the  best  of  all  I  ween, 

To  woman,  'tis  the  greatest  blessing, 

She  now  can  sew  without  distressing. 

No  treadle  now  for  her  to  beat, 

No  labor  now  for  weary  feet ; 

But  touch  a  spring,  the  needle  goes, 

She  guides  the  cloth,  'tis  all  she  does ; 

No  aching  back  no  tired  feet, 

Just  sitting  upright  in  cozy  seat, 

A  pleasant  past-time  'tis  now  to  sew, 

With  Woman's  thanks  to  brother  Brosius  go. 

All  mothers  will  bless  tne  Brosius  name, 

Their  daughters  will  ever  do  the  same. 

Benefactor  Brosius,  to  female  race, 

Thou  hast  solved  a  serious  case ; 

God  has  inspired  thee  with  this  fact, 

Guided  thee  in  this  genious  act. 

D.  U,  SLOAN. 

ATLANTA,  GA.,  Sept.  5,  1888. 


202  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW: 


A  WORD  FROM  A  CENSUS  TAKER. 


[From  the  Rome  (Ga.)  Tribune.] 

Avast,  There  !   Atlanta. 

It  was  only  by  the  most  strenuous  exhibition  of  nerve  and 
obstinacy  that  one  of  Rome's  most  distinguished  citizens 
escaped  a  forcible  enumeration  as  a  .citizen  of  Atlanta. 

The  Roman  (and  his  name  would  add  immense  pungency  to 
this  narrative)  was  sitting  in  his  room  at  the  Markham, 
engaged  in  business  conversation  with  a  citizen  of  Texas. 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  in  answer  to  invitation,  a 
census  enumerator  walked  in,  took  a  seat,  unrolled  his  papers 
and  presented  a  blank  to  each  of  the  gentlemen  to  be  filled. 

"But  I  am  not  a  citizen  of  Atlanta,"  said  the  astonished 
Roman. 

"  That  s  all  right,"  said  the  enumerator  softly.  "You  are 
here  now." 

"  Well,  but  I  live  in  another  city,"  said  our  distinguished 
fellow  citizen. 

"  Yes,  but  you  may  not  get  back  in  time  to  get  counted 
there,"  urged  the  Atlanta  census  taker. 

"  Oh,  I  live  in  Rome.     I  left  there  this  morning.     I  am 

O 

going  back  this  afternoon,"  protested  the  Roman. 

"  Still  the  train  might  run  off  with  you.  Better  let  me 
count  you  anyhow." 

And  the  stirring   official,  with  the  noble  spirit  of  Atlanta 


OK,    THK    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  203 

pulsing  in  his  wrist,  was  just  about  to  capture  and  appropriate 
to  the  State  capital  one  of  the  best  names  of  the  mountain 
metropolis,  when  the  owner  of  it  rose  up  and  invited  the  obdur 
ate  census  man  to  go  out  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

Our  citizens  of  Rome  generally — and  this  one  in  particular — 
are  good  enough  generally  to  divide  in  half  and  make  two 
good  citizens  to  the  growth  of  other  towns,  and  there  is  no 
place  we  had  rather  share  with  than  Atlanta,  but  somehow  the 
pride  of  locality  is  so  great  with  Romans  that  none  of  our  peo 
ple  care  to  be  counted  away  from  home  this  summer. 

We  regret  now  that  this  disposition  was  not  published  earlier 
for  the  benefit  of  Atlanta  enumerators. 


EDITORS  CONSTITUTION  :  I  read  in  the  Constitution  this 
morning  the  article  from  the  Rome,  Ga.,  Tribune,  a  thrilling 
episode,  of  how  "  one  of  Rome's  most  distinguished  citizens, 
by  strenuous  exhibition  of  nerve  and  obstinacy,  escaped  forci 
ble  enumeration  by  one  of  Atlanta's  census  takers." 

That  ferocious  enumerator  must  have  been  me,  as  the  Mark- 
ham  House  was  a  part  of  my  work.  The  list  of  names  and 
rooms  were  given  me  by  the  clerk,  and  I  called  to  see  the 
parties. 

This  particular  case  is  adorned  with  so  many  embellishments 
that  I  fail  to  remember  it,  and  must  say  that  it  savors  to  me 
much  of  romance.  I  take  the  occasion  to  beg  the  gentleman's 
pardon,  if  I  seated  myself  in  his  room  without  invitation. 

I  beg  his  pardon  again  if  I  failed  to  distinguish  him  as  one 
of  Rome's  most  distinguished  citizens.  It  did  not  occur  to  my 
obtuse  mind  that  he  was  a  mogul,  nor  the  disproportion 
between  his  size  and  make-up,  and  that  of  my  humble  self.  I 


204  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

do  not  remember  even  that  his  august  presence  inspired  me 
with  the  slightest  terror. 

And  once  more  I  beg  pardon  if  I  handed  him  and  the  gen 
tleman  from  Texas,  the  schedule  blanks  to  fill,  for  in  every 
other  instance,  I  have  asked  the  questions,  and  filled  out  the 
blanks  with  my  own  hand. 

If  the  conversation  occurred  as  related,  I  do  not  remember 
it,  and  if  true,  it  was  in  pleasantry.  I  like  a  little  fun,  but  I 
do  assure  the  distinguished  gentleman  from  Rome,  that  I  did 
not  seriously  entertain  the  thought  for  a  moment  to  commit  a 
rape  upon  his  great  name,  for  the  emolument  of  Atlanta.  The 
conquest  of  a  more  insignificant  name  would  have  been 
attended  with  less  hazard,  and  would  have  answered  the  same 
purpose. 

Now  as  to  the  last  statement,  the  grand  climax  and  finale. 

"When  the  census  taker  was  just  about  to  capture  and 
appropriate  one  of  the  best  names  of  the  mountain  metropolis, 
then  the  proprietor  of  that  great  name,  rose  up  and  invited  the 
obdurate  census  man  to  go  out  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air." 

Now  that  part  of  the  story  is  too  thin,  for  I  reckon  there 
are  a  hundred  good  citizens  in  Atlanta  who  know  the  census 
man  referred  to,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  make  them  believe 
this  census  man  was  so  forgetful  of  his  principles,  and  his  her 
editary  courtesy  as  to  fail  to  return  the  compliment  by  asking 
the  distinguished  gentleman  from  Rome  to  come  out,  too,  and 
breath  the  fresh  air  with  him. 

When  he  speaks  of  the  stirring  official  with  the  noble  spirit 
of  Atlanta  pulsing  in  his  wrist,  if  he  will  allow  the  substitution 
of  the  word  heart  for  wrist,  the  phrase  will  be  accepted ;  for 
the  census  taker  loves  Atlanta,  for  forty  years  his  heart  has 
been  with  her.  He  knew  her  when  she  was  weak,  and  shabby, 


OK,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  205 

and  poor,  and  now  adores  her  in  her  strength,  splendor  and 
greatness.  He  has  watched  her  eclipse  all  other  cities  in 
Georgia,  and  now  that  she  has  promise  to  become  the  great 
city  of  the  south,  she  has  no  time  to  rebuke  the  barking  at  her 
heels;  but  she  has  enough  humble  citizens,  like  her  census 
takers,  to  take  care  of  her  trailing  skirts. 

Respectfully,  D.  IT.  SLOAN, 

The  Census  Taker. 


HON.  LOGAN  E.  BLECKLEY, 

Chief  Justice  for  the  State  of  Georcia,  a  self-made  man,  has  ever  been  a  hard  worker,  a 
man  who  stands  square  in  his  boots,  and  asks  no  favors.  A  man  distinguished  for  his  con 
scientiousness,  ever  willing  to  take  the  fare  he  offers  to  others ;  a  man  who  knows  how  to 
imitate  nothing  or  nobody — if  not  an  original  character,  then  nothing.  Generous  and  just  in 
all  his  dealings,  and  adorned  by  nature  with  a  large  share  of  the  Christian  virtues,  but  a 
man  that  I  have  thought  has  given  more  of  his  attention  to  the  teachings  of  Moses  than  he 
has  to  the  teachings  of  Christ,  the  greater  of  the  two.  He  has  been  my  friend  for  forty 
years,  and  from  whom  I  have  received  many  acts  of  kindness.  A  man  to  be  admired  as 
much  for  his  simplicity  of  manner,  as  for  the  largeness  of  his  intellect. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW.  209 


JUDGE  BLECKLEY'S  PHANTOM  LADY. 


O,  Lady,  Lady,  Lady: 

Since  I  see  you  everywhere, 
I  know  you  are  a  phantom — 

A  woman  of  the  air. 
I  know  you  are  ideal, 

But  yet  you  seem  to  me 
As  manifestly  real 

As  any  thing  can  be. 
O,  soul  enchanting  shadow, 

In  the  day  and  in  the  night, 
As  I  gaze  upon  your  beauty 

I  tremble  with  delight. 

If  men  would  hear  me  whisper 

How  beautiful  you  seem, 
They  should  slumber  while  they  listen 

And  dream  it  in  a  dream ; 
For  nothing  so  exquisite 

Can  the  waking  senses  reach — 
Too  fair,  soft  and  tender 

For  the  nicest  arts  of  speech. 

In  a  pensive,  dreamy  silence 

I  am  very  often  found, 
As  if  listening  to  a  rainbow 

Or  looking  at  a  sound. 
'Tis  then  I  see  your  beauty 

Reflected  through  my  tears, 
And  I  feel  that  I  have  loved  you 

A  thousand  thousand  years. 


SENATOR  JOSEPH  E.   BROWN, 

Horn  in  old  Pendleton  District,  S.  C.;  married  Miss  Elizabeth  Gresham,  who  was  born  at 
old  Pendleton ;  made  the  law  his  profession.  Elected  to  the  Georgia  Senate,  next  Gov 
ernor  of  Georgia  for  four  consecutive  terms.  From  that  position  he  went  to  a  Federal 
prison,  next  Chief  Justice  of  Georgia.  Elected  President  of  the  Western  and  Atlantic 
Railroad,  and  to  the  United  States  Senate.  Senator  Brown  gave  fifty  thousand  dollars  to 
the  education  of  the  poor  young  men  of  Georgia,  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  the  Baptist 
Theological  Seminary  of  the  South ;  and  has,  in  his  day,  wielded  more  power  in  Georgia 
than  any  other  man  alive  or  dead. 


THE    FOGY   DAYS    AND    NOW. 


THE  POOR  BOY. 


Though  a  secessionist  and  a  confederate  soldier,  I  rejoice 
that  the  Union  of  the  States  has  been  preserved,  and  pray 
that  this  Union  may  never  be  severed. 

If  wrongs  shall  occur,  as  they  undoubtedly  will,  from  tima 
to  time,  I  have  confidence  in  the  people.  If  through  party 
spirit,  excesses  and  outrages  are  perpetrated  by  one  section 
upon  another,  I  believe  a  right  thinking  people  will  correct 
the  wrongs  at  the  ballot  box. 

Here  is  a  brief  history  of  the  lives  of  two  American  South 
ern  boys,  two  cousins,  both  with  brain  and  brawn,  the  one 
from  the  hill-sides  of  poverty,  the  other  from  the  lap  of  wealth; 
the  fortune  of  one,  that  he  started  poor,  the  misfortune  of  the 
other,  that  he  started  rich. 

The  birthplace  of  the  poor  boy  was  among  the  backwood 
hills  of  old  Pendleton  District,  South  Carolina,  near  the  Geor 
gia  line,  and  opposite  the  counties  of  Rabun  and  Habersham. 

In  his  youth  his  parents  moved  over  into  Union  county, 
Georgia,  to  a  section  still  farther  remote  from  the  advance  of 
civilization ;  here  our  poor  boy  was  compeled  to  labor  daily 
on  the  little  farm  to  aid  his  father  in  the  support  of  the  family 
and  in  such  spare  times  as  he  could  command  for  himself,  he 
cultivated  patches  and  corners  of  the  fences  for  his  own  private 
means.  After  a  time,  he  had  saved  enough  of  his  hard  earn 
ings  to  piirchase  a  pair  of  small  steers,  which  he  broke  to  the 
yoke. 


214  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 

From  that  small  start,  from  that  insignificant  possession, 
sprang  in  his  mind  a  great-  conception  ;  he  thirsted  for  knowl 
edge.  He  had  learned  from  surrounding  nature  that  from  the  lit 
tle  acorn  the  great  oak  had  grown,  and  right  upon  those  steers 
was  laid  the  foundation  for  future  greatness.  He  had  deter 
mined  to  sacrifice  the  steers,  earned  by  the  many  days'  sweat 
of  his  face  and  tiresome  toil  of  his  body,  upon  the  altar  of  wis 
dom,  and  resolutely  and  literally  "  steered  "  his  course  in  that 
direction. 

Watch  him  as  he  starts  from  the  humble  home  of  his  parents} 
dressed  in  a  plain  homespun  suit,  wool  hat,  and  home  tanned 
shoes  ;  he  walks  behind,  and  with  a  plow  line  drives  before 
him  his  steers.  I  am  familiar  with  the  roads  he  traveled  then 
and  in  my  imagination  can  see  him  now  as  he  wends  his  way 
over  the  mountains,  up  and  down  the  long,  rough,  steep,  hills 
over  creeks  and  rivers,  on  and  on  for  more  than  a  hundred 
miles.  As  he  wends  his  weary,  lonesome  way,  the  passing 
equestrian  but  little  dreams  of  the  undeveloped  power  hidden 
in  his  humble  mien ;  and  as  he  ghees,  or  haws  his  steers  to 
either  side  of  the  road,  to  allow  the  splendid  equipages  to  pass 
with  their  stylish  occupants,  unnoticed  by  them,  could  it  have 
entered  their  thoughts  that  one  day  that  shabby  youth  would 
be  able  to  buy  out  their  aggregate  possessions  and  still  have 
abundance  left.  But  on  and  on  he  trudges  with  weary  feet,  in 
tent  upon  one  great  object,  to  seek  the  temple  of  learning,  some 
times  overtaken  by  the  darkness  of  night,  alone,  friendless  and 
unknown,  except  by  his  steers ;  at  last  his  destination  is  reached 
he  has  arrived  at  the  Calhoun  academy.  He  soon  trades  his 
steers  for  eight  months'  board,  and  arranges  his  spare  hours  to 
labor  for  his  tuition. 

Next  we  see  him  as  he  sits  under  the  shades  of  the  great 


OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  215 

oaks  near  the  academy  pouring  over  his  lessons.  We  now 
introduce  the  wealthy  cousin,  who  has  also  come  to  the  Cal- 
houn  academy  to  be  educated.  He  comes  in  a  carriage,  is 
dressed  in  broad-cloth,  and  has  money  in  his  pockets  to  spend 
as  he  likes,  but  withall  a  clever  kind  hearted,  rollicking,  friendly 
and  talented  fellow,  ready  for  fun  or  for  a  fight  at  the  drop  of 
a  hat,  but  with  no  incentive  to  self  exertion,  or  self  daniel. 

Time  passes  and  the  poor  boy's  means  are  about  exhausted, 
he  must  soon  abandon  his  studies  and  return  to  his  humble  and 
obscure  home,  to  his  old  time  daily  toils. 

One  d#y  the  rich  cousin  approaches  where  he  sits  under  the 
trees  at  his  books,  advises  him  to  give  up  the  foolish  idea  of 
an  education,  to  abandon  an  ambition  so  preposterous.  He 
said  to  get  an  education  required  money,  that  he  had  already 
fooled  away  his  steers ;  to  go  back  home  and  when  he  got  hold 
of  another  pair  of  steers  to  hold  on  to  them;  that  it  was  not 
his  lot  in  life  to  have  an  education ;  to  be  content  to  remain  in 
sight  of  his  daddy's  cow  pen — that  he  could  be  happy  there. 
Said  his  own  father  was  rich  ;  that  the  negroes  were  like  black 
birds  in  his  father's  fields;  that  he  would  have  money  to  back 
him ;  he  would  go  through  the  South  Carolina  college;  that 
his  career  would  be  onward,  upward,  excelsior,  by-G-d,  and 
concluded  by  saying  to  the  poor  cousin,  when  I  am  thundering 
in  the  halls  of  congress  where  the  h-11  will  you  be. 

This  was  discouragement,  but  it  did  not  discourage  him. 
The  poor  boy  returned  alone  to  his  humble  and  obscure  home; 
but  he  had  got  a  taste,  he  had  learned  to  read,  to  write  and 
cypher,  and  plodded  on  as  best  he  could  for  advancement,  and 
the  rich  cousin  went  to  college,  and  here  we  draw  the  curtain 
for  a  season. 

Nearly  twenty   years  have  passed,  the  scene  now  opens  at 


216  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND 

Milledgeville,  Ga.  There  is  an  assembly  of  guests  at  the  Man 
sion.  Two  gentlemen  from  S.  C.,  and  the  once  rich  cousin,  who 
is  now  a  member  of  the  Legislature,  are  the  guests,  and  are 
entertained  by  the  once  poor  boy,  now  Governor  Joseph  E. 
Brown,  and  his  wife.  They  are  talking  of  bye-gone  days,  and 
the  Governor  relates  the  story  of  the  school  boy  days,  and 
the  advice  of  the  rich  cousin,  who  meditatively  replies,  "well, 
Joe,  the  changes  and  phases  of  human  nature  are  d — n  strange, 
arn't  they?  Once  more  we  let  the  curtain  fall. 

Another  season  of  twenty  years  have  intervened,  and  the 
scene  has  shifted  again.  Joseph  E.  Brown  is  now  a  U.  S.  Sen 
ator,  and  is  really  a  thunderer  in  the  halls  of  congress,  but  the 
once  prosperous  cousin,  where,  oh  where  is  he  ?  The  rich  man's 
son  a  wanderer  in  a  strange  land  among  strangers,  the  poor  boy 
a  man  of  untold  wealth,  and  upon  whom  all  the  honors  of  his 
adopted  State  has  been  heaped. 

The  cousin  was  a  warm  friend  of  mine,  and  a  school  mate, 
and  by  nature  a  real  noble  fellow ;  his  great  misfortune  was 
that  he  was  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth.  The  once 
poor  boy  lives  to-day  in  Atlanta,  Ga.  A  phenomenal  success 
in  every  thing  he  has  undertaken,  known  to  the  world  and  to 
fame,  and  the  best  illustration  of  the  possibilities  of  a  poor 
young  man,  perhaps,  that  there  is  to-day  in  America;  and  no 
doubt  that  many  of  us,  of  ante-bellum  times,  would  (have  been 
more  useful  citizens,  and  better  off  in  the  world,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  difficulties  of  the  silver  spoon. 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  217 


THE  OLD  NORTH  STATE. 


SURREY  COUNTY,  N.  C.,  April  26. — Editors  Constitution : 
The  biggest  man  in  the  world  was  fattened  in  North  Carolina, 
having  reached  the  enermous  avordupois  of  one  thousand 
pounds.  The  anecdotest  man  in  the  world  lives  in  that  state. 
The  largest  lump  of  gold  was  found  there,  too,  and  the  Bun 
combe  part  of  that  state  is  without  a  rival  for  its  cabbage 
heads. 

If  you  stick  a  pin  through  the  map,,  near  the  coast  at  the 
northeast  corner  of  North  Carolina,  about  Currituck,  and 
whirl  the  old  North  State  around  with  your  finger,  you  will  find 
the  southwest  corner,  in  the  circumference  made  will  brush 
both  the  states  of  Maine  and  Florida,  and  that  it  embraces 
within  its  territory  a  greater  variety  of  products  than  any 
state  in  North  America — from  cotton  to  tobacco,  rice  to  buck 
wheat,  tar  to  balsam,  goobers  to  chestnuts,  coal  to  iron,  nickle 
to  gold,  corundum  to  diamonds — and  let  it  be  ever  remem 
bered  by  all  Americans  that  it  was  from  this  old  North  State 
the  first  bugle  notes  of  independence  were  sounded,  whose  clar 
ion  blast  awakened  this  great  continent,  and  its  sound  went 
across  the  great  waters  to  the  shaking  up  of  kingdoms.  Great 
is  the  old  north  state. 

Recently  I  listened  to  a  song  of  the  old  North  State,  ren 
dered  by  a  Surrey  county  young  lady  with  so  much  patriotic 
pathos  that  I  caught  the  inspiration.  As  each  verse  proceeded^ 


218  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW; 

so  increased  my  reverence  for  the  old  North  State.  When 
Fulton  county,  Ga.,  was  but  a  howling  wilderness,  when  her 
hills  were  only  known  to  the  red  man  and  her  forests  the  hab 
itations  of  wild  beasts,  when  the  great  city  of  Atlanta  was  as 
yet  unconceived  in  the  realms  of  thought,  Surrey  county,  N.  C.> 
was  already  settled  by  an  intelligent  and  hardy  race  of  Caucas 
ians  from  the  isles  of  Great  Britain,  whose  decendants  still 
hold  the  fort.  Some  of  them  have  grown  rich  in  lands,  tene 
ments  and  herediments,  but  still  adhere  to  their  original 
simplicity  of  manner  and  dress.  With  these  unpretending 
people  the  outside  fix-up  of  a  man  is  not  an  index  to  his  finan 
cial  condition.  I  imagine  if  one  of  Sam  Jones's  spider-legged, 
toothpick-toed  dudes  were  to  alight  about  the  Pilot  mountains, 
he  would  be  taken  for  some  kind  of  a  stray  sea  bird  driven  in 
by  the  storms,  captured  and  caged  by  a  sewing  machine  agent, 
and  carried  around  for  a  nickel  show. 

Mount  Airy,  the  principle  town  of  Surrey,  is  located  on  a 
high  ridge,  in  the  fork  made  by  the  Arrarat  river  and  Stew 
art's  creek,  half  surrounded  by  the  Blue  Ridge  mountains,  pre 
senting  a  most  enchanting  view.  It  is  already  quite  a  flourish 
ing  town,  without  railroad  facilities;  has  1,500  inhabitants, 
mostly  white;  is  remarkably  well  built.  I  noticed  many  hand 
some,  even  stylish  residences;  beautiful  shades  and  flower  gar 
dens;  large  brick  stores,  warehouses,  manufactories  and  tan 
neries;  has  a  capital  newspaper,  a  brassband,  hotels, 
schools  and  churches.  I  heard  modern  music  floatino- 

^  o 

out  from  parlor  windows;  saw  well  dressed  ladies  on 
the  streets,  some  even  with  bustles,  but  not  of  the  huge  pro 
portions  we  often  meet  on  the  side  walks  of  Atlanta.  I  met  a 
young  lady  resident  of  Mount  Airy,  who  had  triumphantly 
scooped  up  three  first  honors  from  the  different  colleges,  and 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  219 

whose  artistic  touch  on  the  piano  would  command  the  admira 
tion  of  Peachtree  circles  in  the  gate  city  of  the  South.  An 
other  young  lady  is  a  finished  cabinet  workman,  as  well  as  an 
accomplished  musician,  who  handles  the  saw  and  chisel, 
and  the  piano  keys  with  equal  talent  and  facility,  possessing 
a  superb  and  cultivated  voice,  and  is  the  organist  of  the  Bap 
tist  church. 

The  finest  wool  blankets,  cassimeres  and  jerseys  ai'e  manu 
factured  here  by  the  Moore  Brothers. 

In  sight  of  Mt.  Airy  is  the  birth-place  of  Daniel  Boone,  of 
Kentucky  fame.  His  name  is  still  to  be  seen  chiseled  out  on  a 
rock  by  his  own  hands,  in  the  yard  of  the  old  homestead. 
Spending  a  night  at  the  dilapidated  old  town  of  Rockford,  we 
stabled  our  horse  in  the  room  of  the  old  court  house  where 
Andrew  Jackson  was  admitted  to  practice  law  and  where  he 
pleaded  his  first  case.  Just  across  the  line,  in  Patrick  county,  1 
was  pointed  out  the  birthplace  of  J.  E.  B.  Stewart,  of  con 
federate  fame.  In  Wilkes,  an  adjoining  county,  our  Governor 
John  B.  Gordon's  father  was  born  and  lived  for  many  years, 
and  where  his  relative,  General  J.  B.  Gordon  lived  and  won 
great  distinction.  From  Wilkes  county  a  part  of  my  own  an 
cestry  came,  on  the  Hackett  side.  Mt.  Airy  is  built  on  a  beau 
tiful  white  speckeled  granite  rock,  the  disentegration  of 
which  has  imparted  a  whitish  color  to  the  soil  for  miles  around. 
This  granite  works  up  well,  and  there  now  lies  at  the  quarry  a 
slab,  without  a  break,  two  feet  wide  and  ninety-two  feet  in 
length. 

My  old  friend  Charley  Lewis  carried  me  out  to  see  the  cele 
brated  White  Sulphar  Springs,  four  miles  from  town — a  most 
lovely  place.  The  hotel  sits  in  a  cove  under  the  foot-hills  of 
the  Blue  Ridge,  with  a  lawn,  covered  with  shade  trees  of  ten 


220  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  J 

or  fifteen  acres,  stretching  to  the  Arrarat  river  in  the  front. 
The  analysis  of  this  spring  is  the  same  as  the  Greenbrier,  of 
Virginia.  You  can  see  the  sulphur  crystalized  and  encrusted 
upon  the  walls  of  the  rock  enclosing  the  spring.  For  dyspep 
sia,  catarrh,  cutaneous,  liver  and  kidney  affections,  wonderful 
cui'es  have  been  effected.  Near  this  spring  are  the  Blue  Ridge 
pinnacles,  said  by  an  extensive  tourist  to  be  the  greatest  curi 
osity  in  North  America,  excepting  Niagara  Falls  alone. 

Twelve  miles  south  of  Mt.  Airy  is  the  Pilot  mountain. 
Ascending  from  the  lower  hills  that  surround  its  base,  it  rises 
near  2,000  feet  in  a  cone  shape.  When  near  the  apex,  it 
seems  to  have  been  cleft  in  twain  horizontally  and  the  segment 
patted  up,  corn-dodger  fashion,  into  a  ball,  and  then  set  back 
again,  on  top.  I  walked  round  in  a  well-worn  path  under  the 
rim  of  this  dome,  a  circumference  of  one  mile,  affording  a 
beautiful  view  of  the  surrounding  countiy,  looked  down  upon 
a  thousand  tobacco  farms.  To  ascend  the  top  of  tb  e  dome 
ladders  have  to  be  used,  and  on  the  very  top  is  a  patch  of  for 
est  timber,  about  ten  acres.  Half  way  up  the  mountain  is  a 
bold  spring  of  delicious  water,  gushing  out  from  under  the 
ledges.  On  last  Easter  Sunday  I  met  on  the  Pilot  a  large 
crowd  of  Surrians,  who  make  it  their  custom  to  spend  Easter 
on  the  mountain.  I  persuaded  some  of  the  young  folks  to 
sing  "Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,"  as  we  sat  on  rocks  under  the 
dome,  started  a  club  for  The  Weekly  Constitution  and  prom 
ised  to  write  an  article  about  Surrey  county  for  The  Constitu 
tion.  I  cannot  omit  to  mention  an  old  time  wooden  clock, 
ten  feet  high,  that  I  saw  in  a  corner  of  a  Surrey  dwelling — an 
inimitable  grandfather's  clock.  To  how  many  generations  it 
has  ticked  the  destruction  of  time,  and  to  how  many  more  it 
will  mark  the  passing  hour,  who  can  tell  ?  Surrey  county,  N. 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  221 

C.,  may  have  lain  in  a  sort  of  comatose,  or  Rip  Van  Winkle 
state,  in  the  past  tense ;  but  she  has  a  destiny  for  the  future, 
abounding  in  resources  of  wealth,  the  best  hill  lands  for 
tobacco,  the  finest  bottoms  for  cereals  and  grasses,  with  vast 
water  powers  for  machinery,  a  great  variety  of  the  most  valu 
able  timbers,  rich  in  mineral  ores,  an  upright,  energetic  people. 
The  Cape  Fear  &  Yadkin  Valley  railroad  is  already  in  her  bor 
ders,  and  will  reach  Mt.  Airy  in  the  early  part  of  the  coming 
year,  and  in  the  spring  time  of  1888  Madame  Surrey  will  don 
a  new  robe  upon  her  comely  form,  and  with  the  horn  of  pros 
perity  in  her  outstretched  hand  and' maternal  pride  beaming  in 
her  face,  will  step  out  upon  the  stage  and  will  present  to  the 
world  her  fair  and  blooming  daughter,  Miss  Airy,  whose  fresh 
and  genuine  attractions  will  excite  general  applause  from  all 
beholders,  and  whose  real  charms  will  draw  a  cloud  of  devo 
tees  around  her  delightful  circle.  D.  TJ.  SLOAN. 


HON".  JOHN  B.  BENSON, 

Or  old  "  B,"  as  he  is   familiarly  known. 
Born  a   merchant,  in   old   Pendleton,  South  Carolina. 
Died  in  the  harness  at  Hartwell,  Georgia, 

His  epitaph,  or  is  to  be  when  he  shall  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil ;  and  though  there  is  only 
about  one  hundred  pounds  wrapped  about  him,  has  a  soul  big  enough  for  a  coil  of  treble 
the  weight.  My  old  school  mate,  and  who  accidentally  killed  me  with  a  shinny  stick,  and 
for  which  I  afterward  freely  forgave  him,  when  I  learned  he  was  worse  troubled  about  the 
matter  than  I  was.  There  are  few  cleverer  men  in  this  world  than  old'"  B." 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW. 


THE   JUNIUS    LETTERS. 


In  my  article  on  old  Pendleton,  S.  C.,  I  referred  vaguely  to 
the  old-time  famous  Junius'  letters,  the  authorship  of  which 
has,  for  more  than  an  hundred  years,  been  shrouded  in  mys 
tery,  a  mystery  of  the  18th  century,  and  only  paralleled  in  that 
£reat  metropolis  of  the  world  by  the  mysterious  murders  of 
Jack  the  Ripper,  of  the  19th  century. 

My  old  friend,  John  B.  Benson,  has  just  opportunely  sent 
me  a  clipping  from  the  Hartwell  (  Ga.)  Sun,  of  matter  fur 
nished  by  himself  through  its  columns,  that  throws  much  light 
on  the  subject  of  the  Junius  letters.  Old  "B."  says  about  the 
very  beginning  of  the  present  century  there  came  a  man,  a 
refugee  from  England,  to  old  Pendleton,  who  brought  with 
him  a  lot  of  type  and  printing  material  that  had  been  used  in 
London  in  publishing  the  celebrated  Junius  letters,  and  this 
man,  John  C.  Miller,  had  been  driven  out  of  England  on 
account  of  his  connection  with  the  printing  of  these  letters. 

Miller  started  the  tir&t  newspaper  at  old  Pendleton,  and 
called  it  "Miller's  Weekly  Messenger — a  paper  12  by  14  inches 
in  size  ;  and  one  day  the  old  man  had  gone  to  dinner  and  left 
the  forms  all  ready  to  be  struck,  when  Tolliver  Lewis,  a  young 
lawyer,  stepped  into  the  office,  took  out  an  E  from  the  head- 


0'2<>  TFIE  FOGY  DAYS  AND 

ing,  and  put  in  an  A,  making  it  read,  "Miller's  Weakly  Mes 
senger,"  and  the  old  fellow  did  not  find  out  the  trick  until  the 
whole  issue  had  been  printed. 

The  name  of  the  paper  was  some  time  afterward  changed 
to  the  "Pendleton  Messenger,"  and  its  size  enlarged  to  14  by 
16  inches,  price  per  annum  $3.00,  cash,  or  $3.50,  credit.  The 
press  used  was  one  that  General  Greene  had  in  the  Revolu 
tionary  war,  and  looked  like  an  old  wooden  loom,  such  as  the 
women  used  in  those  days,  and  two  buckskin  balls  were  used 
to  ink  the  type. 

After  Miller's  death,  Dr.  F.  W.  Symmes  became  editor  of 
the  Pendleton  Messenger,  and  25  years  later  his  son,  Seb 
Symmes,  removed  the  old  outfit  to  Hart\vell,Ga.,  and  together 
with  a  printer  named  Hagan,  started  the  Hartwell  Messenger. 
So  the  same  old  English  type  that  printed  the  Junius  letters 
also  printed  the  Pendleton  and  the  Hartwell  Messengers. 

Old  "B."  still  has  a  copy  of  the  original  Junius  letters  in 
book  form,  printed  in  England,  but  unfortunately  the  date  is 
torn  from  the  front  of  the  book  with  the  cover.  He  has  also 
two  copies  of  the  old  Pendleton  Messenger  as  far  back  as  1818, 
in  good  state  of  preservation,  and  the  type  of  these  old  papers 
and  the  English  book  are  the  very  ^ame. 

Old  '  B."  says  that  the  Rev.  T.  T.  Christian,  now  of  Atlanta, 
and  editor  of  the  Wesleyan  Christian  'Advocate,  learned  his 
trade  in  the  office  of  the  old  Pendleton  Messenger  ;  says  he 
has  seen  him  in  the  office  with  ink  on  his  face,  and  as  full  of 
mischief  as  a  pet  coon.  "  I  could  tell  a  good  one,  too,  on  Tom, 
about  a  speech  he  tried  to  make  at  the  old  Pendleton  Aciulemy, 
but  won't  now,"  says  Bob  Thomson,  editor  of  the  Keowee 
Courier,  who  has  made  his  mark  in  South  Carolina.  Tom 
H.  Russell,  who  was  the  best  speller  in  town  and  who  could 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  227 

read  anybody's  writing,  also  learned  there,  and  says  he  used 
to  take  orders  to  the  store  from  John  C.  Calhoun  over  to  Tom, 
to  have  them  deciphered,  so  he  could  fill  out  the  orders.  Mr. 
Calhoun  wrote  an  awful  hand. 

The  following  short  sketch  of  the  Junius  letters  are  so  inter 
esting  that  I  give  it  to  my  readers : 

"Junius"  was  the  signature  of  an  English  political  writer, 
the  author  of  the  letters  which  appeared  in  the  "  London  Pub 
lic  Advertiser,"  between  January  21,  1769,  and  January  21, 
1772.  Henry  Woodfall  was  the  publisher  of  the  Public  Ad 
vertiser,  and  every  means  were  used  to  induce  him  to  divulge 
who  Junius  was,  but  without  success. 

These  letters,  directed  against  the  ministry  and  the  leading 
public  characters  connected  with  it,  contain  some  of  the  most 
effective  specimens  of  invective  to  be  fr»nnd  in  literature. 
Their  condensed  and  lucid  diction,  studied  and  epigrammatic 
scarcasm,  dazzling  metaphors,  and  fierce  and  haughty  personal 
attacks,  arrested  the  attention  of  the  government  and  the 
public.  Not  less  startling  was  the  immediate  and  minute 
knowledge  which  they  evinced  of  court  secrets,  making  it 
believed  that  the  writer  moved  in  the  circle  of  the  court,  and 
was  intimately  acquainted,  not  only  with  ministerial  measures 
and  intrigues,  but  with  every  domestic  incident.  They  exhib 
ited  indications  of  rank  and  fortune  as  well  as  scholarship,  the 
writer  affirming  that  he  was  '•  above  a  common  bribe  "  and  "  far 
above  all  pecuniary  views."  When  Woodfall  was  prosecuted, 
in  consequence  of  Junius'  letter  to  the  king,  the  author  prom 
ised  to  make  restitution  to  him  of  any  pecuniary  loss.  The 
authorship  of  Junius  was  the  greatest  secret  of  the  age.  Every 
effort  that  the  government  could  devise  or  private  indignation 
prompt  was  in  vain  made  to  discover  it.  The  Earl  of  Mansfield 


228  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW. 

and  other  legal  advisers  of  the  crown  had  many  consultations 
as  to  how  this  "  mighty  boar  of  the  forest,"  as  he  was  called 
by  Burke,  could  be  most  adroitly  ensnared  in  the  network  of 
the  law.  The  host  of  enemies  whom  he  aroused  in  every 
direction  were  eager  in  plotting  schemes  for  his  detection. 
But,  aware  that  his  power  and  perhaps  his  personal  safety 
depended  upon  concealment,  he  continued  to  astonish  every 
one  by  his  secret  intelligence,  and  to  assail  the  government 
with  undiminished  intrepidity  and  rancor,  revealing  his  appre 
hensions  and  precautions  only  in  his  private  notes  to  Wood- 
fall.  His  security  was  doubtless  due  in  large  measure  to  the 
forbearance  and  honor  of  this  publisher,  who  followed  strictly 
the  imperative  and  precise  orders  of  his  correspondent. 

Sir  W.  Draper,  who  entered  into  controversy  with  this 
unknown  adversary,  was  in  the  end  overmastered  and  reduced 
to  mere  humble  complaint  and  confession.  The  Duke  of  Bed 
ford,  Lord  Mansfield,  and  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  all  measured 
intellectual  lances  with  Junius,  but  were  made  to  writhe  in 
ignominious  defeat. 

Who  the  person  was  who  thus  foiled  the  scrutiny  of  his  own 
age  has  been  the  subject  of  more  than  one  hundred  volumes 
and  pamphlets.  Efforts  have  been  made  at  different  times  to 
identify  him  with  no  less  than  forty  eminent  Englishmen  and 
Irishmen,  and  while  it  may  be  put  down  as  supported  by  the 
best  evidence  that  the  author  was  Sir  Phillip  Francis,  still  it 
has  not  yet  been  demonstrated  beyond  a  doubt,  and  to-day  the 
question,  "Who  was  Junius?"  remains  unanswered. 


DR.   H.  V.   M.  MILLER, 

Born  in  old  Pendleton  District,  South  Carolina,  grew  up  to  manhood  in  Rabun  County, 
Georgia.  Graduated  in  medicine  in  South  Carolina,  completed  his  study  of  medicine  in 
Europe.  Settled  in  Cassville,  Georgia,  there  entering  politics,  he  became  known  as  the 
Demosthanes  of  the  mountains.  Was  a  surgeon  in  the  Confederate  army,  has  been  pro 
fessor  of  medical  colleges  in  Memphis,  Tenn.,  in  Augusta,  Ga.,  and  in  Atlanta,  Ga.  An 
editor  of  medical  journals,  and  United  States  senator.  A  fine  speaker,  a  man  of  great  gifts 
in  conversation,  and  one  of  the  best  read,  and  best  informed  men  in  Georgia. 


THK    FOtiY    DAYS    AN1  I)    NOW.  231 


THE   OLD   STONE    CHURCH. 


About  two  miles  out  from  old  Pendleton,  S.  C.,  in  the  woods 
near  a  country  road,  stands  the  crumbling  walls  of  the  old 
Stone  church,  and  hard  by  the  entangled  vines,  the  old  cedars, 
and  other  decaying  evergreens,  grim  sentinels  in  the  dilapida 
ted  old  graveyard,  the  whole  presenting  a  wierd  and  desolate 
scene. 

This  old  Stone  church  was  built  by  General  Pickens  directly 
after  the  Revolutionary  war,  as  a  Presbyterian  church.  About 
1845  the  walls  fell  in,  and  the  old  church  has  long  since  been 
abandoned. 

Many  of  Pendleton's  first  citizens  are  buried  there.  The 
father  and  mother  of  my  old  friend,  John  B.  Benson,  lie 
there.  The  remains  of  Colonel  Bynum,  who  was  killed  in  a 
duel  by  Colonel  Ben  F.  Perry,  repose  there. 

I  have  a  vague  remembrance  of  many  strange  and  thrilling 
histories,  and  legends  connected  with  this  old  Stone  church, 
but  am  not  sufficiently  posted  as  to  the  facts  to  attempt  to 
relate  them  here. 

I  would  have  liked  to  have  gathered  many  of  its  histories 
and  present  them  here,  but  have  failed  to  do  so.  Indeed,  if  I 
-ever  attempt  to  write  another  book  I  would  be  delighted  to 
make  the  whole  subject  upon  old  Pendleton,  its  great  district, 


232  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW. 

and  its  people,  who  have  lived  and  died  and  who  have  gone 
out  from  her  borders,  making  their  impress  upon  other  sections 
of  the  South,  for  they  are  to  be  found  in  every  part  of  our 
sunny  land. 

Right  here  I  am  reminded  of  some  of  old  Pendleton's  peo 
ple,  well  known  in  this  section,  who  have  not  been  mentioned: 
Mr.  I.  O.  McDaniel,  the  father  of  Governor  McDaniel,  Judge 
Hutchins,  the  father  of  the  present  Judge  Hutchins,  of  Gwin- 
nett  county,  and  the  Hon.  W.  T.  Smith,  of  Gwinett,  Mr.  Ed. 
Werner,  of  the  Georgia  road,  the  printer  Bridwell — all  came 
from  old  Pendleton.  So  did  the  great  Dr.  Lewis,  the  father 
of  the  State  road,  and  to  tell  of  all,  would  require  a  book 
for  that  purpose  alone. 


JUDGE  WILLIAM  LOWNDES  CALHOUN, 

President  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  for  the  Confederate  Soldiers'  Home,  Lieutenant 
Colonel  Georgia  Volunteers,  President  of  the  Confederate  Veterans'  Association  of  Atlanta 
Ga.,  Ex-member  Legislature,  Ex-Mayor  of  Atlanta,  and  the  present  Ordinary  of  Fulton 
Connty.  A  man  of  extra  fine  executive  ability,  and  one  whom  the  people  delight  to  honor. 
And  whilst  Henry  W.  Grady  may  be  called  the  projector  of  the  Confederate  Soldiers' 
Home,  President  Calhoun  has  been  the  perfector  of  the  work ;  it  has  been  to  him  a  work  of 
love,  and  to  which  he  has  devoted  a  great  deal  of  his  valuable  time,  without  charge.  He 
has  superintended  and  directed  every  item  of  the  work  on  the  Home,  and  if  it  is  ever  used 
for  that  purpose,  there  ought  to  be  two  busts  placed  in  the  niches,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
entrance  to  the  Home,  one  of  H.  W.  Grady,  the  other  of  W.  L.  Calhoun. 


THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW.  235 


THE  CONFEDERATE  SOLDIERS'   HOME. 


A  year  or  two  before  his  death,  Henry  W.  Grady  and  other 
patriotic  citizens  of  Atlanta,  conceived  the  idea  of  a  home  for 
the  old  and  helpless  veteran  soldiers  of  Georgia. 

Mr.  6rrady  entered  into  this  noble  work  with  all  the  ardor 
of  his  enthusiastic  soul.  Others  soon  caught  the  spirit,  and 
warmed  up  to  the  aid  of  this  most  commendable  purpose.  The 
first  thousand  dollars  was  contributed  to  the  Soldiers'  Home 
from  a  gentleman  in  New  York.  This  was  followed  by  several 
subscriptions  of  a  thousand  dollars  each  from  wealthy  gentle 
men  in  Atlanta.  Then  many  citizens  of  Atlanta,  and  other 
parts  of  the  State,  subscribed  smaller  amounts,  to  build  the 
Home  for  the  old  soldiers. 

When  a  considerable  sum  had  been  raised,  a  board  of  trus 
tees,  consisting  of  thirty  of  the  best  men,  and  from  different 
parts  of  the  State,  were  elected,  who  purchased  120  acres  of 
land  in  sight  of  the  city  of  Atlanta,  selecting  a  beautiful  site 
on  an  eminence  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  majestic  forest  trees. 
An  architect  was  employed,  a  suitable  plan  designed,  and  a 
contract  for  the  building  was  let.  The  result  is  that  an  impos 
ing  wooden  structure  has  been  erected,  containing  67  rooms, 
spacious  halls  and  delightful  verandas,  making  a  grand  and 
convenient  Home  for  the  old  soldiers. 

A  street  car  line  has  been  extended  to  the  very  doors  of  the 
Home.  Drives  have  been  graded  through  the  grounds,  and 
orchards  have  been  planted.  A  force  pump  now  throws  the 
water  from  a  clear  spring  up  into  lofty  towers,  which  is  con- 


236  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW. 

ducted  thence  into  convenient  parts  of  the  building.  Laundry 
and  bath  rooms  have  been  arranged,  and  the  most  convenient 
pantry  and  safes.  A  splendid  range  and  boiler  and  complete 
outfit  of  cooking  apparatus  stands  in  the  roorny  kitchen  ready 
for  use  (a  present);  a  heating  arrangement  has  also  been  put 
in  the  building  (a  present);  both  presents  from  parties  in 
other  States ;  •  a  nice  organ  (a  present  from  an  Atlanta  firm), 
and  parties  from  another  State  offered  to  put  in  a  gas  plant 
worth  $2,000.  This  last  gift,  perhaps,  is  lost,  by  the  delay  of 
the  last  legislature  to  accept  the  property,  besides  a  crop  on 
the  land  and  a  year  to  the  old  soldiers. 

This  valuable  property  is  all  paid  for,  nor  has  a  single  incum- 
brance.  During  the  last  legislature  the  whole  outfit  was  ten 
dered  by  the  trustees,  as  a  gift  to  the  State  of  Georgia,  with 
the  single  condition  that  the  State  accept  and  agree  to  take 
care  of  her  old  and  helplesss  soldiers  for  a  period  of  25  years, 
and  after  the  expiration  of  that  time,  the  property  should 
belong  to  the  State  to  dispose  of  as  she  thought  proper. 

A  bill  was  introduced  in  the  house  to  that  effect,  and  was 
referred  to  the  finance  committee,  where  it  seems  to  have 
nodded  a  few  times,  and  finally,  just  before  adjournment  of  the 
body,  to  have  dropped  off  on  the  table  into  a  dead  sleep,  and 
if,  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  it  shall  ever  awake  again,  can  but  rub 
its  eyes  and  discover  that  much  valuable  time  has  been  lost. 

This  property,  so  nobly  offered  as  a  gift  to  the  State  of 
Georgia,  is  to-day  worth  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and 
the  best  real  estate  men  say  at  the  expiration  of  the  25  years 
it  will  be  worth  from  three  hundred  thousand  to  half  a  million 
dollars. 

It  is  also  estimated  that  an  average  of  ten  thousand  dollars 
per  annum  for  the  25  years,  or  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 


OR,    THE    WOULD    HAS    CHANGED.  237 

dollars  in  the  aggregate,  will  be  suflicient  to  conduct  the  Home 
through  the  period  named.  Of  course,  the  largest  amount 
would  be  required  the  first  half  of  the  time,  as  in  the  last  half 
their  members  would  greatly  diminish,  and  in  the  last  years 
there  would  be  few,  if  a  single  one,  left. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen,  the  proposition  is  a  clear  and  incontro 
vertible  one :  that  the  State,  in  accepting  this  valuable  gift 
from  the  donors  is  presented  the  opportunity  to  care  for  her 
old  soldiers  by  the  mere  loan  of  the  money,  with  the  absolute 
certainty  of  having  the  entire  principal  reimbursed,  and  the 
probability  is  that  not  only  will  the  interest  be  returned  in 
the  end,  but  a  handsome  profit  on  the  investment. 

Every  State,  North  and  Soath,  with  but  one  or  two  excep 
tions,  have  their  homes  for  their  old  soldiers,  and  have  secured 
them  by  an  outlay  of  money,  and  still  the  great  State  of  Geor 
gia  hesitates  when  she  is  offered  the  singular  opportunity  to 
provide  for  her  old  veterans  without  cost. 

The  adjourned  session  of  the  legislature  meets  within  a  few 
days.  What  will  they  do  with  the  home?  This  is  the  ques 
tion.  Much  valuable  time  has  already  been  lost.  If  they 
refuse  to  accept  the  noble  gift,  there  is  but  one  legitimate 
course  left  to  the  trustees — to  sell  the  property  and  return  the 
proceeds  to  the  contributors. 

Can  the  bill  longer  sleep  in  the  committee  room?  Will  it 
not  be  awakened  from  its  long  sleep  on  that  committee  table? 
Will  it  not  be  sent  back  to  the  house  for  a  hearing?  Will  the 
people  never  know  who  are  its  friends  and  its  foes?  If  there 
are  reasons  why  this  seemingly  noble  work  should  die,  let  the 
people  hear  the  reasons.  If  there  is  argument  why  the  Home 
should  not  be  received  by  the  State,  let  it  be  ventilated.  Let 
the  people  hear.  Let  the  silence  be  broken. 


238  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW; 


CONCLUSION. 


In  winding  up  this  my  first  and,  in  all  probability,  last 
attempt  in  the  manufacture  of  literature,  I  am  free  to  confess 
the  many  imperfections  in  the  little  book  (for  indeed  I  have 
discovered  not  a  few  of  them  myself  )  ;  and  no  doubt  some  of 
my  conceptions  may  be  objectionable  to  some  of  its  readers  I 
answer,  the  only  trouble  on  my  part  was  want  of  better  sense, 
and  if  perchance  I  had  got  the  whole  thing  plumb  right,  it 
would  not  have  suited  everybody.  Even  honest  people  may 
differ,  see  things  in  different  lights  and  shades  from  different 
standpoints,  and  though  we  may  disagree  in  some  things,  we 
can  still  be  friends;  and  for  the  sake  of  peace,  I  will  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  you  may  be  right,  and  I  wrong.  I  only  claim  my 
convictions,  and  accord  the  same  to  you.  To  a  great  degree 
we  are  all  creatures  largely  influenced  by  generations,  sur 
roundings  and  circumstances ;  our  teachings  have  much  to  do 
with  our  likes  and  dislikes,  with  our  prejudices,  for  or  against. 

I  have  concluded  in  my  declining  years,  that  whilst  I  look 
upon  my  fellow  man  as  a  very  wonderful  being,  and  am  con 
stantly  amazed  at  his  clevernes,  startled  at  his  cunning  ways, 
his  marvelous  inventions,  and  the  vastness  of  his  worldly 
wisdom,  yet  I  have  discerned  that  there  is  a  limit  to  his  capac 
ities,  and  to  his  accomplishments,  as  there  is  to  his  temporal 
life,  and  that  after  all  his  seemingly  big  ways  and  doings,  he 
is,  at  least,  but  a  very  simple  and  foolish  creature  about  some 
of  the  most  important  things,  and  that  some  of  the  very  wisest 
of  the  world,  are  to-day  engaged  in  the  silly  and  unprofitable 


OR,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  239 

employment  of  trying  to  stop  up  the  little  leaks  of  life,  and 
leaving  open  the  great  bung-holes  of  eternity;  and  in  summing 
oip  the  whole,  there  is  very  little  difference  between  the  worlds 
wise  man,  and  its  fool,  and  that  the  history  of  both  may  be 
summed  up  into  blunders,  one  half  misdeeds,  and  the  other 
half  mistakes;  and  I  have  even  thought  it  possible  that  more 
of  the  world's  fools  may  lie  saved  in  the  end  than  its  wise. 

The  successful  man  of  the  world  is,  by  common  consent,  con 
sidered  the  wise  man,  and  upon  him  are  the  honors  and  the 
adorations  of  the  world  heaped.  Although  the  very  program, 
in  a  special  sense,  is  in  direct  defiance  of  the  written  laws  of 


On  the  other  hand,  the  same  law  condemns  the  sluggard,  but 
the  true  wisdom  is  clearly  given  —  given  too  plainly  for  mis 
takes  —  and  is  contained  in  the  little  text,  "Seek  first  the  king 
dom  of  God." 

How  plain;  who  can  mistake  its  meaning;  and  shall  not  all 
men  be  held  responsible  for  its  infringement.  It  clearly 
applies  to  all  —  the  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  rich  and  the  poor, 
high  or  low.  We  are  all  amendable  to  this  commandment; 
and  why  cannot  all  sane  men  recognize  the  unalterable  fact, 
that  the  greatest  of  all  wisdom,  is  to  seek  the  greatest  amount 
of  good,  and  that  good  that  will  endure  for  the  greatest  period 
of  time;  which  can  alone  be  found  within  the  pale  of  the  per 
manent  plan  of  salvation,  as  promised  in  the  written  word  of 
the  allwise  Creator,  the  maker  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 

Then  as  we  are  all  in  a  common  trouble,  and  the  difference 
in  our  temporal  condition  is  of  such  small  moment,  why  should 
not  we  all  seek  to  help  one  another;  as  all  shall  need  mercy, 
why  not  be  merciful  ;  as  all  shall  need  friends,  why  not  be 
friendly;  why  should  the  humble  hate  the  proud  and  self  con- 


240  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  J 

conceited,  for  all  too  soon  they  will  have  their  day  of  reckon- 
in<*;  why  should  the  rich  and  strong  despise  the  poor  and 
weak,  for  their  own  day  of  helpless  poverty  is  but  postponed. 

What  man  with  common  sense,  who  will  stop  a  moment  and 
think,  can  fail  to  conclude,  from  his  own  earthly  observation, 
that  old  Solomon  was  right,  when  he  pronounced  the  fleeting 
things  of  this  earth  all  vanity.  We  must  all  leave  the  world 
and  its  folly  far  behind  us. 

A  certain  hard  student  in  his  youth,  and  an  able  jurist  in 
his  maturity,  is  accredited  with  the  saying,  "That  the  next 
best  thing  to  religion  is  fun  ;"  and  he  was  perhaps  not  far 
wrong,  though  like  the  poet  who  wrote  that  incomparable  song, 
"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  was  said  never  to  have  had  a  home, 
we  have  thought  this  jurist  and  student  must  have  had  large 
imagination,  for  in  his  studious  youth  he  had  but  little  time 
for  fun,  and  under  the  arduous  duties  of  the  ermine,  less  time 
for  religion. 

I  have  thought  that  the  man  who  loves  his  God  and  his  fel 
low  man,  cannot  be  adverse  to  fun,  harmless  fun.  Tying  a  tin 
can  to  a  dogs  tail  in  wanton  fun  ;  to  fight  dogs  and  chickens,  is 
cruel  fun  ;  to  profane  the  Sabbath  with  unrighteous  merri 
ment,  is  sacreligious  fun ;  but  to  surprise  suffering  humanity 
with  acts  of  kindness,  and  with  timely  aid,  is  heavenly  fun. 
The  frolics  of  the  lamb  and  kitten,  are  innocent  fun  ;  the  birds,, 
when  they  flit  so  merrily  among  the  green  boughs  and  chirp 
and  sing,  are  having  their  fun ;  nature  itself  clappeth  her 
hands  for  joy,  and  this  is  the  kind  of  fun  we  mean.  The 
Prodigal's  brother  hated  fun. 

The  man  who  hopes  for  heaven  ought  to  be  merry,  and  the 
merry  man  maketh  his  neighbor  merry.  A  good,  genuine, 
hearty  laugh  is  the  sign  of  a  happy  man.  But  there  is  a  wan- 


OK,    THE    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  '1  \\ 

ton,  wicked  chuckle,  in  which  there  is  no  fun,  that  scorches 
like  fire  and  nips  like  hoar  frost,  a  chuckle  that  sarcasts  its 
hisses  from  lips  of  venom. 

I  rather  think  there  will  be  fun  in  heaven.  There  is  a 
pleasing  sensation  of  merriment  to  me  in  the  idea  of  being 
freed  from  all  temptation  to  evil  and  sin  ;  the  very  thought 
sends  up  a  fountain  of  joy  swelling  from  the  heart.  I  have 
heard  the  extatic  laugh  of  the  happy  Christian,  as  the  soul 
soared  away  from  the  sin-striken  world,  into  the  purer  atmos 
phere  of  the  holy  heavens. 

There  may  be  no  fun  in  heaven,  but  I  feel  sure  that  there 
is  none  in  hell — none  of  the  kind  that  I  think  I  would  like. 
We  get  a  little  foretaste  of  sweet,  innocent  fun  on  this  earth, 
and  I  think  there  will  be  oceans  of  it  above — rejoicing,  prais 
ing,  laughing — lots  of  fun,  eternal,  righteous  fun. 

I  think  there  is  no  evil  on  earth,  except  by  the  abuse  or  con 
nivance  of  man,  that  all  things  God  allows  on  earth  hath  some 
good  purpose  and  benefit  for  man.  Fire  is  good,  but  will 
burn  ;  water  is  good,  but  will  destroy;  dynamite  is  good,  but 
hath  the  elements  of  death  and  destruction  ;  whiskey  is  good, 
but  will  ruin  ;  the  devil  himself  is  good,  to  warn  men  to  flee 
from  the  wrath  to  come — to  be  not  of  him  or  like  him  ;  sin  is 
good,  to  show  the  contrast  from  righteousness,  that  all  sensible 
men  may  be  taught  to  make  their  choice  between  the  two. 

Reform  is  a  matter  of  grace,  accomplished  through  reason 
and  conviction,  and  consequent  upon  love,  teaching,  prayer 
and  waiting.  It  is  not  of  force  or  the  bayonet  ;  to  be  grow 
ing  and  enduring,  must  become  a  principle. 

Teach  the  people  to  avoid  all  the  dangerous  elements  in  life, 
to  trust  in  God,  the  giver  of  all  good,  to  laugh  and  be  merry, 
and  to  love  all  innocent  fun. 


242  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW; 

Friendly  reader,  I  am  possessed  of  but  little  of  this  world's 
wisdom,  wealth,  or  fame,  yet  I  have  managed  to  keep  reason 
ably  happy,  and  moderately  contented;  have  had  considerable 
fun  in  my  day — some  wanton  and  wicked  fun,  and  some  inno- 
-cent  fun.  1  have  repented  of  the  first,  and  rejoice  in  the  1-ast. 
The  innocent  will  be  accredited  to  my  permanent  account,  and 
the  other  forgiven,  on  account  of  the  over  and  abundance  of 
grace  ever  ready  to  be  poured  out  upon  those  who  ask  for  it. 

In  these  unpolished  pages,  it  will  be  easily  discerned  that 
the  writer  is  not  averse  to  fun,  but  do  not  claim  by  any  means, 
that  my  efforts  here  will  stand  the  test  of  innocence ;  yet  I  am 
consoled  with  the  consideration  that  as  I  am  of  the  earth,  still 
earthy,  I  might  have  been  engaged  in  some  other  worse  devil 
ment  than  in  the  writing  of  these  pages. 

Brother  and  sister,  I  am  daily  becoming  more  and  more 
impressed  that  we  are  living  in  a  wonderful  age ;  I  am 
impressed  with  the  idea  that  the  world  is  rapidly  approaching 
its  last  and  culminating  epoch.  First,  the  dismal,  the  silent 
age,  then  followed  the  sluggish,  the  fogy  age  ;  and  now  in  this 
nineteenth  century  comes  the  butterfly  age  ;  and  this  butter 
fly  age,  I  opine,  will  be  the  brief  age,  and  then  the  millenium. 

When  the  butterfly  season  is  over,  then  the  follies  of  the 
world  will  cease  and  the  people  will  return  to  reason  and  to 
God.  The  flow  of  the  two  streams  will  be  reversed,  when  the 
stream  of  unrighteousness  shall  fail  from  the  drouth  that  shall 
fall  on  the  mountains  of  evil,  and  a  great  stream  of  righteous 
ness  will  flood  all  the  valleys  of  sin.  I  think  the  day  is  not 
far  distant  when  the  people  shall  become  convicted  of  their 
high-handed  disobedience  and  ingratitude  toward  a  loving 
God  ;  that  it  will  not  be  long  till  the  veil  that  now  blinds 
their  eyes,  will  be  lifted,  and  that  they  will  with  wonderful 


OR,  THE  WOKL1)  HAS  CHANGED.  243 

accord  seek  to  serve  the  only  true  and  living  God  ;  that  the 
day  is  not  far  away  when  they  will  cry  out  mightily,  "The 
Lord,  the  Lord,  He  is  the  true  God." 

I  am  impressed  that  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  is  prepar 
ing  for  an  amazing  forward  movement;  that  there  are  myste 
rious  movements  about  to  be  executed  on  earth's  chess-board; 
that  the  inscrutable  hand  of  Divinity  is  already  quickening 
his  dealings  with  a  long-rebellious  world.  Ihave  even  thought 
that  the  Sunny  South  might  become  the  favorite  field  for  the 
advance  of  this  great  and  glorious  work,  and  have  in  my  imag 
ination  pictured  our  own  bright  Atlanta  as  a  central  or  dis 
tributing  point  for  the  great  revolution,  the  great  reformation — 
as  a  sort  of  new  Jerusalem,  a  city  set  upon  a  hill.  I  have 
also  imagined  that  our  women  were  going  to  take  a  prominent 
part  in  the  glorious  work  (I  don't  mean  to  preach),  for  I 
believe  we  have  got  more  real,  genuine  Christian  women  in  the 
South  than  any  other  portion  of  this  green  earth,  and  not  a 
few  good  men;  and  I  believe  Atlanta  has  got  more  than  the 
average  of  both  good  men  and  women. 

Now  learn  the  parable  of  the  fig  tree:  "  When  his  branch  is 
yet  tender,  and  putteth  forth  leaves,  ye  know  that  the  summer 
is  nigh."  "But  of  that  day  and  hour  knoweth  no  man,  no> 
not  the  angels  in  heaven,  but  my  father  only." 

I  do  not  wish  it  inferred  from  anything  I  have  said,  that  I 
have  spoken  aught  in  envy  against  the  rich  of  earth,  for  I 
believe  an  honest  rich  man  is  as  good  as  a  poor  man,  if  he 
loves  God.  My  idea  of  his  condemnation  comes  from  the 
scriptures,  which  says,  "How  hardly  shall  a  rich  man  enter  the 
kingdom  of  heaven." 

I  believe  there  are  rich  Christians,  and  that  it  is  scripturally 
legitimate  to  make  money,  but  that  every  man  will  be  held 


244  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW  ; 

accountable  for  his  stewardship,  and  for  the  disposition  which? 
he  makes  of  his  means.  What  I  mean  to  say,  is,  that  every 
human  being,  whether  in  wealth  or  poverty,  fame  or  obscurity, 
power  or  imbecility,  must  subsequently  subserve  to  the  will  of 
a  patient  and  omnipotent  Creator ;  that  he  surely  will  be 
magnified  in  the  sequel,  and  that  every  soul  failing  to  recog 
nize  this  incontrovertible  truth,  will  have  committed  the 
unpardonable  sin  and  inexcusable  folly  of  the  lost ;  and  that 
when  the  greatest  of  all  days  shall  come,  there  will  be  an  host 
who  will  be  appalled  at  their  o\vn  neglect  and  worse  than  folly 
Avhen  the  decided  facts  shall  glare  upon  them  that  they  chose 
the  chaff  in  the  world,  and  spurned  the  wheat. 

Money  should  be  regarded  only  as  money,  not  simply  for 
self-glory,  but  for  God's  glory,  to  honor  him  with;  and  in  hon 
oring  God,  man  is  but  honoring  himself  in  every  true  sense. 
Wealth  should  aid  in  advertising  the  great  plan  of  a  world's 
salvation.  To  worship  the  stuff,  or  its  purchase,  is  worse 
to-day  than  the  calf  worship  of  the  Israelites,  and  to  use  it  to- 
crush  out  God's  poor  is  certain  damnation  to  the  oppressor. 

To  make  money  honestly,  is  right,  but  to  be  poor  is  not 
necessarily  a  crime,  for  the  angels  of  heaven  keep  company 
with  the  righteous  poor,  and  the  legitimate  heir  of  heaven 
watches  over  them  in  deepest  spmpathy  as  they  pass  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  as  he  once  did  himself,  for 
he  is  acquainted  with  their  griefs  and  has  tasted  of  their  sor 
rows. 

I  earnestly  believe  that  poverty,  afflictions  and  trials,  have 
been  to  me  a  priceless  boon,  and  that  they  have  been  sent  in 
love;  and  I  am  trying  to  submit,  and  even  to  learn  to  kiss  the 
chastening  rod,  and  still  be  happy.  I  know  that  he  who  holds 
my  destiny  is  good,  wise  and  merciful ;  all  nature  tells  me  this 


OR,  THE  WORLD  HAS  CHANGED.  245 

is  truth,  and  though  his  ways  are  past  finding  out,  yet  I  shall 
trust  him. 

I  know  in  a  short  time  I  shall  be  summoned  to  his  presence, 
to  stand  my  trial  before  his  unerring  tribunal,  and  have 
already  sent  in  my  plea  of  guilty,  and  have  placed  my  case  in 
the  hands  of  an  advocate  who  has  never  been  known  to  fail  in 
his  courts,  as  far  as  I  have  ever  heard  of,  and  through  messen 
gers  that  I  do  not  dare  to  doubt.  I  am  promised  an  acquittal, 
and  a  free  pardon,  and  not  only  so,  but  I  have  got  word  (  and 
I  believe  it  true)  that  there  is  an  inheritance  reserved  and 
waiting  for  me,  worth  more  than  this  whole  world,  and  that 
«an  never  be  taken  from  me  again,  but  will  endure  when  this 
world  is  blotted  out;  and  more  than  that, that  I  am  to  occupy 
a  social  position  among  the  first  families  of  the  universe,  and 
shall  be  allowed  in  the  very  royal  presence  of  the  King  of 
all  Kings.  What  more  can  we  crave  ? 

I  shall  endeavor  to  calmly  await  my  summons,  and  the  ful 
fillment  of  the  promises.  I  would  neither  hasten  nor  stay  the 
time.  I  want  the  Lord  to  direct  the  whole  matter,  because  I 
have  made  so  many  mistakes  and  blunders.  I  envy  no  man. 
his  posssessionB,  his  temporal  power,  or  his  worldly  fame,  but 
I  do  feel  for  poor  suffering  and  sinful  humanity. 

Wouldn't  I  make  money  if  I  could?  Why,  yes ;  I  reckon  I 
would,  if  I  could  make  it  honestly;  and  if  it  didn't  make  a  fool 
of  me,  I  feel  like  I  would  use  much  of  it  to  alleviate  the  suf 
ferings  of  humanity — at  least,  I  feel  so  now.  I  think  it  would 
be  to  rne  the  greatest  pleasure  that  I  can  imagine,  to  help  my 
poor,  tottering  fellow-man  through  the  world,  and  on  to 
heaven. 

In  my  article  on  "  Prohibition  in  Atlanta,"  it  reads  about 
the  ministers,  that  "  'twas  tho't  that  some  of  'em  tore  their 


246  THE    FOGY    DAYS    AND    NOW  ; 

shirts."  I  want  to  say  no\v,  What  if  they  did?  They  didn't 
care.  If  they  thought  they  were  doing  their  duty,  they  didn't 
care  if  they  tore  a  dozen  old  shirts.  I  have  no  fault  to  find 
with  them  if  they  did  tear  their  shirts ;  and  sometimes,  when 
I  see  what  fools  some  men  make  of  themselves  about  liquor,  I 
feel  like  tearing  up  several  shirts  myself. 

If  I  have  said  anything  to  offend  our  colored  brother,  I 
have  not  said  it  through  ill  will.  I  like  him,  and  I  claim  to  be 
his  friend;  but  I  mean  just  what  I  say.  He  can't  rule  here* 
and  he  nor  no  other  fellow  needn't  try  to  write  it  down  on 
the  bulletin  board  that  way.  The  thing  can't  be  did.  The 
best  thins:  he  can  do,  is  to  be  content  to  sit  at  the  second 
table.  He  can  have  good  fare,  but  he's  got  to  take  the  second 
table,  exceptin'  the  Lord  says  so.  Let  him  educate,  get  all 
the  wisdom  he  can,  make  money,  christianize,  go  spread  the 
gospel  in  his  own  benighted  country,  send  his  young  men  and 
women  there  to  enlighten,  as  they  have  been  enlightened  herer 
and  the  day  came  when  they  will  have  over  there  a  country 
even  bigger  and  better  than  the  white  man's  America.  If 
the  chemical  composition  of  his  skin  has  been  a  little  more 
flavored  than  ours,  the  Lord  did  it ;  but  if  he  fills  his  place 
here,  and  is  received  above,  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  then  be 
as  good  as  the  best.  There  will  be  no  difference  there. 

I  have  made  a  few  cuts  at  our  brethren  across  the  north 
line— not  in  anger  nor  in  hate,  but  in  truth,  as  I  understand 
it.  No  doubt  they  can  point  out  some  ugly  wrinkles  in  us, 
too,  which  they  do  not  hesitate  to  do.  We  all  know  that  we 
have  our  faults,  so  let  us  forgive  and  let  byegones  be  bye- 
gones;  let  us  learn  to  understand  and  love  each  other  bet 
ter;  et  them  come  down  to  see  us  again,  leaving  their  guns 
at  home;  come  in  peace,  and  bring  their  machines,  their 


OR,    THK    WORLD    HAS    CHANGED.  247 

brains  and  their  money  with  them.  Let  them  come;  we  have 
the  country.  Our  genial  sun  will  warm  up  their  hearts,  and  if 
they  will  so  come,  we  will  receive  them  with  open  arms. 
Some  folks  who  read  this  book  may  not  be  democrats.  Well, 
there  is  no  reason  for  a  fuss  about  that.  If  I  was  born  with 
hair  on  my  head  and  a  democratic  seed  inside,  and  you  were 
born  with  or  without  hair  on  yours  and  a  republican  seed  in 
side,  why  let  them  both  sprout  and  grow.  The  Lord,  who 
giveth  the  increase,  will  select  the  timbers,  when  he  needs 
them,  from  the  forests,  and  use  them  as  he  likes. 

Our  readers  may  discover  some  inconsistencies  in  our  writ 
ing.  We  shall  not  be  surprised  if  they  do,  for  our  whole  life 
has  been  made  up  of  inconsistencies.  We  have  endeavored 
to  hide  them  as  much  as  possible,  but  they  would  crop  out  in 
spite  of  us.  Sometimes  we  feel  one  way,  then  another;  some 
times  we  see  one  way,  then  another.  We  hope  all  snch  fail 
ings  will  be  overlooked,  as  we  were  born  with  this  weakness, 
and  have  never  fully  recovered  from  the  disease. 

I  did  think  of  having  my  book  inspected  by  an  expert,  to 
have  it  dressed  up  so  as  to  make  a  more  respectable  appear 
ance;  but,  somehow,  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  showing  off 
in  borrowed  plumage.  I  like  store  goods,  and  would  like  to 
have  them  tailor  made,  if  my  finances  would  afford  it ;  but  I 
prefer  to  patch  up  and  wear  my  old  duds,  rather  than  to  shine 
out  in  the  robes  of  my  more  fortunate  neighbor. 

I  might  have  done  the  job  a  little  better  myself,  if  I  had 
taken  more  time  and  pains;  but  like  the  fellow  who  was  going 
to  be  hung,  I  got  impatient,  and  wanted  the  job  over  with. 
So,  reader,  if  you  find  fault  with  the  grammar  or  diction,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  correct  it  to  suit  yourself ;  if  the  trouble 
should  be  in  the  spelling  or  the  punctuation,  tnen  you  may 


•248  THE  FOGY  DAYS  AND  NOW. 

jump  on  the  printer,  for  he  was  paid  for  that  part  of  the 
work  ;  but  if  you  find  any  whole-cloth  lies  in  the  book,  then 
you  may  put  the  blame  on  me. 

To  the  large  numbtr  of  friends  who  have  subscribed  so 
promptly  for  the  book,  and  to  whom  I  have  sold  at  least  half 
of  the  one  thousand  copies  before  they  come  from  the  press, 
(and  I  consider  this  the  more  remarkable  from  the  fact  that 
the  author  is  entirely  without  literary  reputation,)  and  for  the 
esteem  and  kindness  of  all  these  friends,  I  cannot  find  words 
adequate  to  express  to  them  my  feelings  of  gratitude.  I  only 
feel  mortification  at  my  limited  capacity  to  afford  them  some 
thing  more  worthy  of  their  attention,  yet  I  feel  sure  that  if  I 
have  failed  to  enlighten  them,  I  have  succeeded  in  furnishing 
them  with  a  dollar's  woi'th  of  fun. 

There  are  other  matters  I  would  like  to  talk  about  in  this, 
my  conclusion,  but  if  I  make  the  book  any  bigger  my  printers 
will  not  allow  me  to  sell  it  for  a  dollar ;  so,  with  my  best 
wishes  to  every  reader,  1  bid  each  one  adieu,  with  the  request 
that  he  be  good  to  himself  and  to  his  neighbor,  love  the  Lord, 
and  so  spin  out  my  last  word,  as  I  shall  the  last  moment  of  my 
-unprofitable  Jife,  to  an  e-n-d. 


D.  U.  SLOAN,  JR., 

Professor  and  Proprietor  of  Sloan's  Atlanta  School  of  Telegraphy,  Atlanta,  Ga.— a  compe 
tent  and  thorough  instructor  in  the  art  of  telegraphy.  His  school  is  now  in  its  ninth  year, 
and  is  the  oldest  continuous  School  of  Telegraphy  in  the  South ;  and  it  has  sent  out  its 
graduates  throughout  the  country,  who  are  to-day  occupying  positions  of  trust  and  profit. 
Professor  Sloan  is  a  young  man  of  irreproachable  character,  diligent  and  conscientious  in 
his  efforts  to  instruct. 


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